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THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 










































THAT LATE 
UNPLEASANTNESS 


BY 

NORVAL RICHARDSON 



BOSTON 

SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 





Copyright, 1924 

By NORVAL RICHARDSON 





Printed in the United States of America 
Press of Geo. H. Ellis Co. (Inc.) Boston 

Bound by the Boston Bookbinding Company 
Cambridge , Mass., U, S, A, 





0 V 




THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I 


< 


That Late Unpleasantness 

CHAPTER I 

To look back and see how different we were yesterday 
from what we are today naturally brings up the question 
of what we are going to be tomorrow. It was this 
thought which drove me into keeping a journal; not that 
I do not detest the abominable habit—only bores practice 
it—but I felt a strong impulse to jot down as they came 
the events that would follow the predicament in which 
I found myself. On the whole it has been quite sat¬ 
isfactory, for it has given me the chance to work off fits 
of self-analysis in a much more agreeable way than that 
of confiding them to someone who was only waiting for 
me to finish in order to tell me of his extraordinary con¬ 
dition. The man who keeps a journal has the great ad¬ 
vantage of having the stage to himself; he is not only 
secure from interruption but he is also particularly fa¬ 
vored in that he does not have to answer embarrassing 
questions put by impossible persons. And now, after a 
year, I find myself going over these notes, developing 
them somewhat where familiarity has brought a deeper 
understanding; leaving them in greater part as they were 
first hastily scrawled. 

Paris, March io- 

It has been a stern day, biting cold, with rain and wind 
that seemed bent upon intimacy; the sort of day that con- 

i 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


jures up pictures of a room warmed by blazing logs and 
cheerfully shaded lamps. I spent the morning rendering 
the drawings Jacques Montreux had made for the Hotel 
de Ville competition, leaving the difficult part, the sky, 
which had to be put in with one wash, until I should have 
the atelier to myself. At three o’clock Jacques and his 
Sieves left me alone and I got the sky done, rather suc¬ 
cessfully too, I realized, when I had slipped from the high 
stool and gone across the room to get a proper view of it. 
It was just that velvety grey-blue, fading imperceptibly 
towards the horizon line, which I had planned during my 
wakeful hours of the night before. While I gazed 
through half closed eyes at the finished work, Jacques 
opened the door and looked in. 

“C’est fini?” he questioned anxiously. 

“Yes, it is finished. Look at it.” 

I turned to the window. Through the drizzle and 
flurries of snow Notre Dame was visible, its two dumpy 
towers like old friends who neither comforted nor dis¬ 
couraged, but stood aloof in inexorable silence; beyond, 
La Sainte Chapelle sprang up, thin and nervous; then, a 
huge engulfing mass, the city loomed, grey and forbidding 
outside, yet sheltering the most courageous people in the 
world. For twenty years it has been my intimate com¬ 
panion and friend. 

“C’est monstrueux !” Jacques at last commented. 

“Monstrous? I thought it was good!” 

“Espece de cretin—votre genie!” 

“My genius,” I laughed. “You know I haven’t any. 
But I’m glad it pleases you.” 

“Nom d’un chien ! I say you have genius. Who else 
could have done that sky? Tell me! It makes the 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


3 

building live. It makes it—what is that word in your 
vile tongue?—ripping.” 

I lighted a cigarette and sat down on the model 
throne. 

“Yes, I believe it is good, too. But don’t you see it’s 
only the complement of what you’ve done?—a sort of 
finishing touch. Surely there’s no genius in finishing 
what others have begun. There’s no use trying, Jacques. 
I can’t create.” 

Jacques turned towards me with gently burning eyes, 
his St. Francis expression, I call it. 

“Sapristi! En voila une idee! Make that your pro¬ 
fession. Finish what others have begun. There is so 
much left unfinished—so much that needs retouching— 
those little touches that the creator never sees.” 

“I’ve thought of that, too,” I laughed. “An archi¬ 
tect who remodels unsatisfactory houses; a painter who 
corrects faulty pictures; a musician who rewrites bad 
compositions; an author who reconstructs bad novels. 
Fancy my having gone to Rodin and told him that if he 
had permitted me to finish one of the things he had begun 
I could have made him the most popular sculptor of the 
day; or advising Puccini to introduce more of his old 
time melody into “II tritico;” or showing Victor 
Marguerite how to cleanse “La Gargonne” and make 
it decent! It would be a wonderful profession. But— 
I should be poorer than I am today, if that were possible.” 

Jacques went back to the drawing. 

“Mais, cest epatant! Your shadows are actually there; 
I feel them. Mon ami, you are a poet!” 

“And like all poets—starving.” 

“Ah! You are hungry?” 


4 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“Not quite that bad. But I must pay for my lodgings 
today.” 

With one of his quick, nervous gestures, he thrust a 
handful of brass francs into my pocket. They looked 
smart and comforting on such a day. 

“Bonne chance, Jacques,” I said to him as I went to¬ 
wards the door. “I hope you’ll win the prize. Let me 
know when you want something else done. Au revoir.” 

Outside, the wind struck me with its searching touch, 
a sympathetic though harsh caress. I drew in the freez¬ 
ing air and held it, enjoying a new energy after the foul 
atmosphere of the atelier. Then I struck out at a brisk 
pace, crossed into the open square before Notre Dame, 
crossed again to the Quai du Louvre, then on through 
the Tuileries, and finally got into the Rue de la Paix. 
Ah! these cold, wet days in Paris! Surely there is 
nothing like them anywhere else in the world!—when the 
sky is a grey shroud and the streets slippery mirrors in 
which the street lamps are reflected like jewels in the 
shop windows; when the rushing crowd jostles one good- 
naturedly; when the thousands of faces that whirl by 
are so much more alert than on bright days. There seems 
no time for loitering; everyone appears affaire; all the 
world has an object in getting somewhere. When one 
is once out in such weather the picture of the lamp-lit 
room grows dim; that appears only for the old and de¬ 
crepit. This, out in the wet street, is life—young, fra¬ 
grant, joyous life, full of the rush of things. A woman 
dashes by, her eyes brilliant through a heavy veil; two 
men, in fur coats, keeping step, pass with an air of 
lustiness; an old fellow and his wife move briskly along, 
throwing off for the moment the routine of their dreary 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


5 


lives; a bearded old crone, selling papers, shouts out the 
last edition in a ringing tone; and two girls, smart 
midinettes, glide along, too obsessed with the idea of 
getting to their destination to throw even a furtive glance 
at the jewelry shops;—in all, an intensely living people. 

I was at the Avenue de l’Opera before I knew it; then 
I turned and cut out for my lodgings, which necessitated 
crossing the river again. At the top of four flights of 
steps Nannette was waiting, already bundled up for the 
street in a way that was particularly characteristic of her 
—and of nothing else. Nannette is a danseuse at the 
Opera—the Grand Opera, if you please—and inciden¬ 
tally the daughter of Madame Xavier from whom I hire 
my lodgings—one room. 

“Ah! Monsieur has come at last! I have waited 
to tell him a cablegram has come/’ 

“For me ?” I was frankly startled. 

“Mais, oui, Monsieur! It is in your room; and a 
letter—a very grosse lettre!” 

She followed me into the room, covering her curi¬ 
osity with the hope that it might not be bad news. 

“How could it be, Nannette? I have no relatives. 
My friends, the few I have, are in Paris and could not 
send me a cable if they wished to.” 

“Why not, Monsieur ?” 

I picked up the envelope impatiently. If Nannette 
thought I was going to read it to her she was mistaken. 
It has been so long since I had received a cable that I 
was determined to be selfish and share its interest with 
no one. 

“Nannette—it’s half after six. You know what that 


means. 


6 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


She pursed out her lips, then stamped her foot. 

“You know, Monsieur, I want to know what the cable¬ 
gram says. ,, 

“Why didn’t you say that at first instead of making 
me think you were sincerely worried that it might be bad 
news. Above all things I like frankness.” 

“And I, Monsieur, detest it.” 

“Helas! I know that only too well.” 

“Will Monsieur open the envelope or not?” 

A clock chimed the quarter hour. 

“Nannette, you will be late at the opera—and fined.” 

She came up close to me, twisted her mouth in the 
rather attractive way she can, frowned, then let a tear 
trickle down her cheek. She really has histrionic talent. 

“Vous etes bete! You don’t love me!” 

“I never said I did!” I answered, in shocked surprise. 

“I detest you!” 

She flew out of the room in a terrific rage. Unap¬ 
peased curiosity in a woman is frightful. 

I sat down and opened the cablegram, then the letter. 

How they found me remains still to be explained; and 
another thing that did not seem strange to me at the 
time, yet now that I come to think of it a few hours 
later appears to have some psychological importance, is 
that after the first shock of surprise my thoughts shot 
back to the days of my childhood with an intensity of re¬ 
membrance. Not that they were pleasant thoughts, for 
of all unhappy periods in a man’s life his childhood seems 
to me the most miserable. One has no freedom, tyrants 
of the Tiberius school cannot hold a candle to what nurses 
and teachers and unsympathetic parents can be; and all 
this bosh about the freedom from responsibility is only 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


7 


a popular belief engendered by those who have not been 
wise enough to elude it in later life. No, for the real 
joy of living, give me the grown-up every time. But, as 
I say, I began to think of myself as a boy once more in 
Massachusetts, in a little town on the outskirts of Lowell. 
Familiar parts of the house I had called home rose be¬ 
fore me, an apple tree in the garden where I first learned 
the delights of reading—a pleasure which grew into an 
obsession, much to the disgust of my father. My mother 
had died at my birth. Then came the friends of those 
days; an old school teacher, Miss Mary Ann Fox—I 
caught myself smiling over the name—who had been al¬ 
most sympathetic, if one could call a New England school 
“marm” by so lenient a title. She did not frown on my 
reading, she even gave me books, most of them Haw¬ 
thorne, I remember; and most of all she let me play with 
Myles Standish, her cat. How I loved him and how I 
wept over his departure after a most trying spell of 
mange. That was my first sorrow! Drab years fol¬ 
lowed, one after another, and ended, at the blackest mo¬ 
ment, with the appearance of my mother’s brother who 
lived in Europe and had come to take me there with him. 

It is said that everyone experiences a little of heaven 
during this life—just to whet the appetite, I suppose, for 
what is to come; and I’m sure those years with my 
uncle were my allotted term of happiness. A chateau in 
southern France was our summer and autumn residence; 
a magnificent house in the Quartier de l’Etoile sheltered 
us in winter. It was here that I first learned how won¬ 
derfully beautiful life can be made when one has the taste 
and the means. My uncle, rich, a bachelor, and an art¬ 
ist in every sense of the word, though he did not create, 


8 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


kept nothing from me and kept me from nothing. It 
was not an entirely normal life for a boy, yet I do not 
believe it has hurt me. Through my uncle’s breadth of 
view and suggestions I got a balance that I could hardly 
have obtained otherwise. “A man finds himself sooner 
or later,” he once said to me. ‘‘Only one thing I always 
caution a young man;—not to use up the fountains of 
life at once. Temperance in all things makes them last 
longer.” 

With his death came the debacle. He had lived beyond 
his income. Indeed, he had spent his capital, and every¬ 
thing had to be sold to settle the estate. At the end of 
two months I found myself staring at poverty with 
only the memory of luxuries to reinforce me. Some¬ 
thing had to be done; and at that moment the war 
solved my problem. I had been so long in France, so 
much a part of it, that I had no other thought than to 
help her at that crucial time. The Foreign Legion 
seemed my only chance—one that I took advantage of 
at once and which brought me back to Paris, at the end 
of two years, with a leg that was practically useless. I 
suppose I should be contented that I can get along with 
a slight limp, though at times I wonder if those clever 
artificial legs would not be much more satisfactory and 
far less trouble. A drop of oil, a repaired bit of mecha¬ 
nism, seem more amenable than stiff joints that nothing 
will help. After that—when my own country had en¬ 
tered the struggle—I was found useful as liaison officer 
and worked in this field until the armistice had been 
signed. Then, with everything settling down again—or 
at least attempting to settle down—my problem once more 
faced me. What was I going to do? As I had begun 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


9 


my studies in architecture at the Beaux Arts before the 
war, it appeared only practical to resume this work when 
that school opened again; but the mere pittance my father 
had left me made things very difficult. At times I did 
not make ends meet. Finally, I was reduced to render¬ 
ing drawings, the only thing apparently that I can do 
well. Sometimes I became rather bitterly discouraged; 
but that rarely lasted long. Life is too exciting not to be 
interesting—just the mere living of it—and so long as I 
am not hungry and have a comfortable room, the luxuries 
may go hang. Besides, I get a reflection of the joys of 
those about me which warms me, and I can enjoy my 
friend’s possessions without tasting the gangrene of envy. 
For all of which the gods be thanked. If I am a failure 
from the viewpoint of the worldly successful man, I may 
at least possess something that he has never known—con¬ 
tentment. And, after all, I live in Paris, which is much. 

A sudden draught took the letter out of my hand; 
I looked up startled and saw Nannette on the threshold. 

“Ma, fois. Monsieur, but it is cold here! You have let 
the fire die.” 

I sprang out of my chair. 

“What time is it? Surely you aren’t back from the 
opera ?” 

“Naturellement, it is after midnight or I should not be 
returned.” 

“And I should have sent a cable hours ago.” 

“An answer to yours, Monsieur ?” 

I nodded and pulled on my top coat. 

“Yes, an answer, Nannette; and I’m going to tell you 
what it is all about. Your insistent curiosity deserves 
reward. Don’t take off your coat. Come with me 


10 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


while I send the cable. Then we’ll go to Mere Gemier’s 
and have supper. We’ll celebrate, Nannette.” 

“What, Monsieur?” She is always suspicious. 

“My good luck, or bad—call it what you will!” 

While she made pretense of indecision, knowing all 
the time that she was going, I picked her up and carried 
her all the way down to the street. Then, with her arm 
linked in mine, we walked rapidly toward the Bureau de 
Telegraphe. A strange looking couple we must have 
been, even for Paris, for Nannette was holding her 
weather-proof coverings in a bunchy way that gave 
her the appearance of a library chair on Louis XV 
legs. 

That I should have chosen her as my companion to 
celebrate my good luck this night may call for an ex¬ 
planation—for her sake. It was only fortuitous. No 
one else was convenient. She was on the spot when I 
recovered from the blow. There had never been the least 
beginnings of an affair between us; not that Nannette 
did not have the meet-me-at-the-edge-of-the-wood-in-a 
red-shawl expression, but she has never appealed to me 
as the type to meet at the edge of the wood, either 
Boulogne or Vincennes. Whether she meets others there 
or not I do not know—it is too disconcerting to look into 
the morals of one’s housemates; still, I have an idea that 
she does. 

We stopped at the Bureau de Telegraphe where I wrote 
out the answer to my cable, Nannette all the time leaning 
over my shoulder and trying to make out what I was 
writing. Her English is made up of two words, “All 
right,” the two that one hears from one end of the earth 
to the other, no matter if it be a Mohammedan or an 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


ii 

Eskimo speaking. Then we went to Mere Gemier’s, 
found a table in a corner, and contentedly heard our 
chairs grate on the sanded floor. 

While I chose the menu, Nannette began unrobing— 
it actually amounted to that—first unwinding a veil which 
she folded ever so carefully and pinned to the sleeve of 
her coat, then off came the coat which evidently served 
in one of the Napoleonic campaigns; next followed a 
knitted arrangement and many other things that a cory¬ 
phee uses in Paris to protect herself from the cold. It 
was such a pleasure to her, this unrobing; and I’m sure 
the thought of having to put it all on again and take it 
all off still again when she got home only enhanced her 
zest. At the end of fifteen minutes she took her seat 
opposite me in a mere width of black cloth which was an 
immensely chic gown. Her face, sallow and thin, ac¬ 
centuated by the make-up she had not removed, topped 
the black sheath wonderfully characteristic of Paris. I 
tell her she has eyes like Cecile Sorel, the complexion of 
Duse, and the curiosity of—I don’t know what. Squint¬ 
ing at me across the table, her near-sighted eyes were full 
of wistfulness, done of course to hide the curiosity con¬ 
suming her. 

She glanced at the bottle of wine. 

“Ah, Monsieur has ordered the still, golden wine!” 
I smiled and nodded, though she did not answer my 
smile. “Once before I have drunk it with Monsieur. 
Does he remember?” 

Of course I did. It was two years ago, just after the 
armistice when I had hired my lodgings from her mother, 
that I had been taken into the family confidence and told 
of Nannette’s debut at the Opera. We had grown so in- 


12 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


terested in the details of this great event that Madame 
had even gone so far as to ask me to accompany her that 
night, which I did, sitting beside her in the “pigeonnier” 
and vainly attempting to distinguish Nannette among the 
hundred others of the Faust ballet. Afterwards, I had 
squandered some francs on them—it seemed such a 
proper occasion to be extravagant—and we had drunk 
Chateau Yquem. 

“Odd you should remember that!” I commented. 

Her eyes drew close together. “It means an event/' 

I smiled, reddened, and felt a little impatient that she 
should insinuate a reflection on my usual economy. There 
had been a time when Chateau Yquem was a mere Fri¬ 
day beverage for me. She was quick to see my peevish¬ 
ness and leaned forward. 

“Mon Dieu, but you are stupid, Monsieur! You never 
understand. I mean the golden wine signals a great 
event. First it was my debut; now—what is it now, 
Monsieur?” 

“My cablegram, you mean ?” 

“Nom d’un chien, of course! What else could I mean! 
But your American brain goes slow!” 

“Am I very American, Nannette? You know I am in 
France twenty years.” 

“Twenty years! That is long! I have known you 
but two. Sometimes that is long, also. No, Monsieur, 
you are not American; still—you are not French.” 

“Why?” 

“You never see what is before you—you don’t under¬ 
stand—you are cold!” 

“In other words, Nannette, I am not French because I 
do not throw vitriol in your eyes when I see you go every 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


J 3 

Sunday to Saint Germain with another fellow—or com¬ 
mit some crime passionelle —” 

“Tiens! What does that mean? That I love him, 
you say?” Her eyes flared at my mention of the Sun¬ 
day excursions. 

“Gracious—no! It means you detest him, I’m sure— 
and love me. It was only a symbolic case that I was 
using. But that is what you mean, isn’t it, Nannette? 
You think I should love you and be jealous of everyone 
you speak to. Then, in your eyes, I should be a French¬ 
man. Fortunately, Nannette, I shall love more seriously 
than you can ever understand.” 

She rested her elbows on the table, sunk her chin in her 
hand, and squinted her eyes at me. 

“Monsieur, how is it that you love ?” 

“I can’t put it into words,” I replied airily. “It’s too 
serious.” 

“Do you ever love a woman just because she loves 
you ?” 

“What a question! Of course not.” 

She lifted her wine glass and looked at it intently. 
After a while she met my eyes: “Now—your news, 
Monsieur.” 

“It is from America.” 

“A relative?” 

“No—I have none. A lawyer.” 

“Eh bienf” 

“I have been left a fortune.” 

She lifted her glass and drank me a toast. “You are 
rich?” I nodded. “As you were before?” Again I 
nodded. 

“You are very happy?” 


i 4 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“In a way. It has a string tied to it.” 

“Cela veut dire—?” 

“It’s property—must live on it five years or give it 
up.” 

“But they say New York is a nice place. I have heard 
the rastaquoueres speak of it.” 

“It isn’t New York. You Europeans think New York 
comprises the whole of the United States.” 

“Then—where can it be?” 

“In the South—in Mississippi.” 

“Meesseesseepee! Quel drole de nom! I have never 
heard of it. Is it in the Congo?” 

“It is one of the states of the United States of Amer¬ 
ica; that is about all I know myself. I remember it in 
my geography. Never since.” 

“Monsieur does not appear so happy.” 

“Would you like to leave Paris for five years?” 

“Jamais de la vie!” 

“To get a great deal of money?” I wanted to test her 
French thrift. 

She debated a moment or two and, curiously enough, 
she appeared a little pale. “Monsieur means that he 
wants me to go there with him?” 

“You know I meant no such absurd thing. I wanted 
your serious help in deciding this question; of course, 
being a woman and a French woman, you are bound to 
give it a sentimental coloring. Don’t you see I’m wor¬ 
ried to death to know what to do—to go or not to go ?” 

Nannette viewed my rage coolly; when I had subsided 
she resumed her questions. 

“What answer did you send?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


15 

“Told the lawyer if he wanted me to come that far 
he’d have to send the wherewithal.” 

“Ah—then you will go ?” 

I looked at her quickly. Her face wore an absurd at¬ 
tempt at appearing sad; the same play in her voice had 
caught my attention. 

“Now, Nannette, I hope you will not go to the trouble 
to try to make me think you will miss me.” 

She smiled quickly. “No, Monsieur, I shall not do 
that. I was only wondering if I could confess some¬ 
thing to you.” 

“Let’s hear it.” 

“Monsieur—I could have loved you—” This was too 
audacious on her part. Yet, while she hesitated I won¬ 
dered what she could be leading up to. 

“Yes, if-” 

“If you had been better looking.” 

I glanced in a mirror that hung near our table and 
caught the reflection of a man, slight and perhaps too 
thin, with deplorably straight, yellow hair—that uninter¬ 
esting shade with no warmth in it; pale blue, watery eyes; 
and a little moustache, so thin and upright at the corners 
that it gave the whole face a jerked up expression. I 
sighed and turned back to Nannette. 

“No, I’m not good looking, I must admit. Yet I 
used to be called rather smart looking.” 

Nannette was laughing now. “Perhaps it was due to 
the clothes, Monsieur.” 

“Nannette, sometimes I hate you.” 

“You said you liked the truth.” 

“I lied. I detest it.” 



i6 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Naturellement. Everyone does—about himself.” 

In some ways Nannette is a philosopher. 

“So—if I had been good looking you could have loved 
»» 

me. 

“Oui, Monsieur, I could have adored you. Quel dom- 
mage!” with a sigh. 

“You are very shallow. You should love me for what 
I am—for what is inside of me.” 

“But how do I know what is inside, Monsieur?” 

She nibbled a bit of Camembert and looked around the 
room; meeting someone’s eyes she squinted and turned 
back to me, not waiting for an answer to her last ques¬ 
tion. “You will live in Meesseesseepee five years. 
There, perhaps, you will find a woman to love you for 
what you have inside—never in Paris.” 

“You think it is possible to find such a marvel? Thank 
you for that much. But you will never find me consol¬ 
ing myself with some village beauty. If I can’t marry a 
woman of the world, I won’t have any.” 

We ate in silence for a few moments; then, quite with¬ 
out warning, Nannette reached across the table and took 
hold of my hand. 

“Monsieur is really going away?” 

“I must.” 

“You will come back to Paris?” 

Of course I said yes, knowing so well how utterly 
unfit I am for life in a small American town. I would 
die of ennui in less than a month. Nannette pondered 
my confession with the aid of a cigarette. 

“It is a long way ?” 

“A week on the ocean. I don’t know how far from 
New York; a week by train, I suppose.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 




“You know no one there?” 

“Not a soul. I never heard of the place before.” 
“C’est dr ole!” 

“I hope it will be amusing.” 

“If you don’t stay—you don’t get anything.” 
“Exactly. I shall be as poor as I am now.” 

“Quel dommage!” 

“It is my fate. Yet—I was born to be rich.” 

“We all were, Monsieur.” 

“But we all don’t know how to spend it. I'm sure 
I do.” 

“Monsieur, don’t go!” 

“Why not, Nannette?” 

“You might not come back.” 

“You think that?” 

“No-o-o. It might happen.” 

“Never fear.” 

“There might be a woman there.” 

“There is usually one everywhere.” 

“She might be the one.” 

“You forget my ugliness would be my safe 
guard.” 

“She might be ugly, too.” 

“Then your philosophy is that like attracts like.” 

“She might fall in love with your money.” 

“And I—” 

Nannette lifted her glass and drained it. “Given a 
fair chance, Monsieur, it would not be difficult to marry 
you.” 

I rose indignantly and called a waiter. 

“It is still early. See—it is only three o’clock. Let 
us sit a while longer, Monsieur.” 


i8 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“For you to amuse yourself at my expense? Even 
my unselfishness has a limit!” 

She got up and came over to me, putting both hands 
on my shoulders and looking me closely in the eyes. 

“If you were only a Frenchman you would under¬ 
stand!” 

After which enigmatical remark she began putting on 
her things. 


Paris, March 25- 

I leave for Cherbourg tomorrow to take the boat for 
New York. 

Three days after I sent the cable asking for the 
“wherewithal” to make the journey, I received in reply a 
sum so much larger than I had expected that I think I 
must have gone off my head for a little while. At least 
I plunged into extravagances that have left me with 
barely enough to make the trip comfortably; and good¬ 
ness knows I haven’t the cheek to cable for more. First, 
I moved into one of the best suites at the Ritz; then I 
wrote to my erstwhile London tailor to make me up a 
complete outfit “for American spring wear,” reserving, 
of course, the haberdashery to be bought here; After 
that I sent invitations to Jacques Montreux and his 
coterie, including their favorite models, for a farewell 
dinner which is to be pulled off tonight, d la Grecque. 
All this being disposed of, I thought of my former valet, 
the one who had been with my uncle most of his life, and 
after a day’s search I found his address; he was in the 
house of a wealthy South American. When I telephoned 
to him, the joy in his voice at hearing mine once more 
gave me a real thrill of pleasure. 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


*9 


“It is a great privilege to see you again, sir,” he began, 
when he had come to the hotel. “And if you will pardon 
my saying it, sir,—in circumstances that become you so 
well.” He is a perfect valet, footman, butler, or what¬ 
ever you want him to be. English, of course—they make 
the only perfect servants—with sideburns and a clear 
complexion and a perfectly expressionless countenance. 
I believe I admire Perkins more than any man I know. 
He has made a success of what he intended to do—and is 
satisfied. No disturbing side ambitions for him; he 
scorns them. To him, being a good valet is as great an 
accomplishment and worthy of as much honor as being a 
good king. 

“Perkins,” I explained, “I have come into a fortune. 
It will take me away from Paris to a part of America I 
don’t know. I want you to go with me.” 

His face fell. “Is it Latin America, sir?” 

“No. It is the southern part of the United States.” 

“I’m glad to hear that, sir. I have been in the employ 
of a gentleman from the Argentine for a few months.” 
It was all he would ever say on the subject, but that was 
quite explanatory, if one understood his methods. “I 
shall be glad to go with you, sir. They say the United 
States is a great country.” 

“Yes, so they say. It will be almost as new to me as 
to you. I haven’t seen it for twenty years.” 

“Might I ask when you will want me, sir?” 

“As soon as you can come.” 

“I’ll give a week’s notice, sir.” 

When he was gone I wondered how I had got through 
the last eight years without him. In his presence I have 
the feeling that nothing unpleasant can possibly happen 


20 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


to me. Is there anything more necessary to our happi¬ 
ness than good servants ? I read the other day that some¬ 
one had won a prize for saying that wealth and health and 
love were the three necessary ingredients of happiness. 
He should have added good servants, for how can anyone 
enjoy those first three conditions without them? 

Now that my passage is engaged, my trunks packed, 
and Perkins once more at the helm, I am filled with con¬ 
tentment. It all seems too good to be true. I shall 
take out the letter containing the announcement of my 
cousin’s death and read it once more to make sure that 
I am not dreaming. It is signed by a certain Broughton 
Morancey, and dated at Cottonville, Mississippi. He be¬ 
gins by telling me that a distant cousin of my father, a 
Miss Penelope Claiborne, has died at the ripe age of 
eighty-five, leaving me her entire estate, consisting of a 
cotton plantation situated in “the richest alluvial bottom 
of the Mississippi valley,” much undeveloped property in 
the suburbs of Cottonville, a residence in the same town, 
bank stock amounting to a hundred thousand dollars, be¬ 
sides cash to a like amount not drawing interest due to 
my cousin’s timidity about investing it. It is quite evi¬ 
dent to me that Cousin Penelope was a miser; still, I’m 
rather glad she didn’t invest that extra hundred thousand. 
The letter continues—to quote exactly: “During my 
last conversation with your esteemed relative, whom I 
have had the honor to know for the past forty-five years, 
she informed me that you were the last surviving member 
of the family, and believing as she did in entailed estates, 
it was only right that the property should go to you; 
however, with this provision, that you should be willing 
to live in her home for a period of five years. It was 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


21 


her idea that you, being a descendant of the Northern 
branch of the family who had fought against the Con¬ 
federate States in our late Civil War, should remain here 
long enough to know what this War had meant to her 
side of the family. She was of the opinion that you had 
naturally inherited the prejudices of your father’s family 
in Massachusetts and would, on that account, have no 
sympathy for the property and traditions she wished to 
leave you. For that reason the aforesaid clause was 
introduced into her will. If you will kindly let me know 
your decision in the matter upon receipt of this letter, I 
shall be happy to undertake anything you may desire. I 
hope, however, that I shall soon have the great pleasure 
of welcoming you to Cottonville.” 

So—there you are; or, more correctly, here I am, 
saddled with the senile machinations of a distant relative, 
who, besides being an octogenarian, was a miser. She 
must have been, to have one hundred thousand dollars in 
cash. And as for the “late Civil War,” what difference 
under the sun can that make to me. I never could re¬ 
member the history of the United States, anyway; it 
changes too quickly and too often. Of course I know 
there was a war about sixty years ago brought on by a 
book some woman wrote and which had to do with 
negroes; and there was a General Butler who fought in 
it and who had relatives who lived near us in Lowell who 
were always talking about the taking or giving up of New 
Orleans. Beyond this I recall the names of some of the 
generals, and yet when I do, it seems very difficult to be 
absolutely certain whether they belonged to the Revolu¬ 
tion or the Civil War. I suppose I ought to be covered 
with confusion at my ignorance, but it isn’t so preposter- 


22 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


ous when one considers that it has been years since I 
have heard the subject mentioned. One doesn’t really 
have time for such things in the Quartier Latin. And 
besides—how is it possible to give any importance to a 
little affair like our Civil War after the holocaust we have 
just been through? 

An hour more and my farewell dinner! I have had 
the room hung in white, cold bluish white, with some 
simulated columns topped with Corinthian capitals touched 
with silver; there are wreaths of silver leaves on the 
walls; and a few tall, slim palms severely placed. The 
floor is covered with the skins of wild animals, the table 
is round, decorated with seven-branched candle-sticks, 
crocus flowers and gardenias. There are couches around 
the table for the men; of course the women will sit on 
benches as in the Hellenic days. Nannette has conceived 
the idea of coming in as Iphigenia, on an acanthus leaf, I 
believe—at least the acanthus leaf is to play some sort of 
part. I’ve left it all to her as she appeared to be boule- 
versee by the idea. I’m sure it will all be a huge success 
and a fitting farewell to Paris. 

A plague on my Cousin Penelope! What earthly 
reason could she have had for wanting me to bury myself 
for five years. As for that wretched war, what differ¬ 
ence will it make which side I sympathize with? I shall 
lose no time in getting such a foolish testament broken; 
no one is expected to abide by a will these days. 

Perkins has just come in to tell me it is time to dress. 
How good it is to have someone once more tell me it is 
time to dress; and to know that there is something to 
dress for, and something to dress in! 


CHAPTER II 


Southern R. R., April io,- 

The American scene without the car window might be 
just as typical of Norway as of my native country, for 
there is nothing visible through the heavy fall of snow 
except distant mountains and an occasional yawning 
chasm which we spring across in the wink of an eye. 

I had a wretched trip over. We encountered storms 
within storms and passed, I’m sure, those celebrated 
Charybdis and Scylla whirlpools. I tried to persuade 
myself that I was not seasick—all to no avail. I igno- 
miniously surrendered and lay flat on my back while 
Perkins brought me champagne and Malaga grapes, a 
proof of his cleverness; a less experienced man would 
have insisted upon weak bouillon which I have always 
thought dangerous for one in the rudest of health. He 
also encouraged me by saying that my illness was the 
natural result of twenty years uninterrupted enjoyment 
of the sauces of France. 

On the fifth day I got out on deck and tried to read; 
but instead of that, I found myself listening to a con¬ 
versation that was going on just beside me and which 
puzzled me considerably. An American woman—fla¬ 
grantly American, and by that I mean the type that over¬ 
runs Paris all summer, well shod, well tailored, self- 
confident and intolerant of unfamiliar customs—was talk¬ 
ing to a man lounging in the chair beside her. I heard 
him say to her: 


23 



24 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“It's queer—but, you know, I can’t tell what part of 
the States you come from; I mean, judging by your 
voice.” 

She gave a contented chuckle; it was more than that, 
it showed real happiness. 

“I’m so glad,” she said. “That’s exactly what I want 
people to say. It’s so provincial to let others know at 
once that you are from Chicago by the way you roll your 
r’s, or from the South by your drawl, or from New Eng¬ 
land by your colloquialisms. It has been the aim of my 
life to overcome my provincial traits. I detest them so. 
They are so vulgar.” 

Now, the question to me is, why should she think 
provincialisms vulgar? I think everyone in a European 
country is proud to carry round with him the special 
characteristics of his province. I’m sure this is the case 
with the man from Bretagne or Touraine or Provence. 
He will admit it is a provincialism, but one to be proud 
of, not to be overcome. I shall make a note of this and 
try to find out what she meant. 

Coming into New York harbor I forgot to thrill with 
the feeling that I was reaching “the land of the free and 
the home of the brave,” though I did hear an enthusiastic, 
naturalized American calling out to a foreigner to come 
“see how the sun sets in America.” Of course I had 
seen it years before, when I sailed away, at a time before 
skyscrapers had made it one of the sights of the world, 
and I was somewhat unprepared for the astounding spec¬ 
tacle that sprang up out of the water. It struck me as a 
distinctly original effect; and combined with the grey at¬ 
mosphere and the greyness of the edifices, the whole scene 
appeared to me fantastic and weird, almost inconceivable. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


2 5 

No one could possibly call it pretty; but without doubt 
it is overwhelming. 

The hurry and scurry of New York, its complete an¬ 
nihilation—at least that is what I judge is in progress 
after seeing its streets—its intense movement, the al¬ 
most fierce expression of its people—are all fearfully dis¬ 
turbing. I couldn’t sleep, in fact I didn’t want to, the 
whole week I was there. 

When I inquired for my railway tickets I found I could 
get a sleeping car that went all the way through to 
Cottonville. 

“Is it such a large city?” I asked the ticket agent 
who seemed to have barely enough time to sell me a 
ticket. 

“If you’ll ask that party he’ll tell you.” 

I turned and found myself in front of an information 
bureau. Everything seems to be departmentized in New 
York. 

“Cottonville,” the “party” began running over the 
leaves of a book after I had put my question. “Yes— 
here it is. Cottonville, Miss.; on the Miss. River; in¬ 
habitants ten thousand—including the whites.” This 
last he added with a smile that increased my bewilderment. 

“What exactly do you mean by ‘including the whites’ ?” 

“That’s where all the niggers come from—down in 
that part of the world.” 

I went back to the hotel puzzling over his remark; 
then a light dawned on me. This was what my Cousin 
Penelope meant by making her will—I was to study the 
negro question as a side issue of that blasted war. If 
my “wherewithal” had not been so low I would have 
taken the first boat back to Europe. 


26 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I am now in Virginia, so the porter tells me. He is a 
negro, or I suppose what would be called a mulatto; with 
brown skin, more a deep yellow, rather unpleasant shin¬ 
ing eyes, and an altogether impudent expression that I 
find most objectionable. He insists upon being very at¬ 
tentive to me in an obvious way, such as dusting the seat 
when I sit down, and pointing out the places of interest 
as we pass them—Philadelphia, and now Shenandoah 
Valley. I find his assurance and what might be called 
condescension insufferable; as for Perkins, I fear he will 
lay violent hands upon him. Still I am studying him as 
the first type I have encountered of the race my cousin 
Penelope fought to retain as slaves. I can’t help hoping 
that the real blacks are better than this mixture; though 
I am sure this one stands for the modern development. 

We reach Cottonville at half-past five tomorrow 
morning; at least the time-table informs one to that 
effect. My new friend says not. 

“You mean we are late?” 

“Naturally,” he raised his shoulders with a most exas¬ 
perating nonchalance. “After you get below Washing¬ 
ton everything lets down; connections go to smash; the 
schedule is turned upside down.” 

“Why is that?” 

“You can search me! I guess it’s the southern way 
of doing it.” 

“Then I shall not reach Cottonville on time ?” 

“Well, hardly; I’d say nine o’clock would hit it about 
right.” 

I’m quite contented that we are late; nine is a much 
better hour to arrive than half-past five. I telegraphed 
Mr. Morancey from New York and so expect him to 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


2 7 

meet me at the station with my cousin’s infernal will in 
one hand and that cash account in the other. 

Cottonville, April n- 

I have arrived—in more than one meaning of the word. 
At eight o’clock Perkins came to the “drawing room” 
and told me we should be there in half an hour. The 
first sensation in getting out of bed was that it was very 
much warmer, an impression made convincing when I 
looked out of the window and saw we were passing 
through a country of sloping hills covered in the fresh 
faint green of early spring. And yesterday I had looked 
out upon a severe snow storm! What a country! 

Perkins preceded me out of the car with my luggage; 
I followed with eyes strained to find what my imagination 
had created as Mr. Morancey. Getting as far as the 
waiting room without being welcomed, I told Perkins to 
remain there while I took a glance about. It was a trim 
little station, painted grey and kept rather neat, giving 
on to a street where some flivvers were waiting in a line. 
As soon as I appeared at the door I was besieged by 
hordes of negro chauffeurs. Finding one less barbaric 
in his insistence than the others, I asked him if he knew 
Mr. Morancey. To my surprise and relief he said that 
he did, but that he was not at the station. 

“I’se jest been talkin’ to ole Miss Claiborne’s coach¬ 
man ober yonder and he says he’s here to meet a friend 
ob de Colonel.” 

I made my way across the street to the spot indicated. 
Under a spreading tree I found the most disreputable 
looking vehicle I have ever seen, a sort of landau of the 
past century, on which the accretions of time and weather 



28 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


had been left undisturbed. The horses, a pair of large 
bays left over from the same period, were dozing con¬ 
tentedly with their heads together. On the box sat a 
decrepit old negro, also sound asleep. 

It seemed a crime to call these contemporaries of my 
relative back into this frightfully modern world, yet I saw 
no other way out of my difficulty. I caught hold of the 
old fellow's coat and gave it a pull. 

“Hello—my man! Wake up, I say; can’t you!” 

I had to repeat this before he opened his eyes and 
looked down at me. I saw now that he was very old 
and quite black, with a grizzly grey moustache and grey 
eyebrows; for clothing he wore a black coat green with 
age, a low turned down collar with a full black bow, and 
a top hat that had forgotten its duty to shine. He looked 
at me slowly, as if an infinite leisure were at his dis¬ 
posal, and I felt a kindly flow of sympathy for him as 
our eyes met; he was evidently a patriarch and probably 
a sort of kind tyrant. 

“Whut’s you wants wid me, seh ?” he asked, as if bent 
upon humoring me. “I’se no public hack driver.” 

“I’m looking for Mr. Morancey. I expected him to 
meet me here.” 

He actually fell off the box and stood staring at me, 
hat off and bowing low. 

“Is you Miss Neppy’s relation, seh?” 

“If you mean Miss Claiborne’s cousin, I am.” 

“Fo Gawd—you show has done tuk ma wind! Is de 
train in?” He began scratching his head, which was 
shaved perfectly bald. I think he was trying to recover 
from the shock. 

“Is Mr. Morancey here ?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


29 


“No, seh, he ain’t heah—he’s done gwine up de riber.” 
Then, with another look at me accompanied by a be¬ 
nignant smile: “You sho ain’t a bit lak Miss Neppy. 
But—whar’s yo belise? I’se to dribe you right to de 
house. De Colonel said to take you dar an’ tell you he’d 
be back today sometime. Saffy’s had breakfast a-waiting 
you eber sence five o’clock.” 

I told him to drive up to the station, and I can still feel 
the blush of mortification on my face as I directed Perkins 
to the preposterous vehicle. The coachman would not 
keep his seat and insisted on getting down and helping 
Perkins with my valises. This accomplished, he turned 
to me, again with the all-embracing smile. 

“Is dis yo pa, seh? I’se powerful glad to make his 
’quaintance.” 

I pushed Perkins, convulsed beneath his outward calm, 
toward the carriage without replying. “Now, drive us 
to the house, please.” 

With most deliberate movements the old fellow 
mounted the box, wakened the sleeping steeds with a 
gentle touch of the reins, and let out a deep, “Git up, 
dah! Cluck! Cluck!” 

The carriage groaned, creaked all over, and finally 
moved off at a pace considered proper for large funerals. 
Perkins sat on the seat in front of me, directly opposite 
but avoiding my eyes. In five minutes we had traversed 
one block of a street on both sides of which were shabby 
wooden structures, plank sidewalks, and a gener¬ 
ally wretched appearance to everything. I pulled 
out my handkerchief and mopped my brow. Why, 
oh why, had I allowed myself to be lured away from 
Paris! 


30 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Perkins!” I cried, “isn’t it too horrible for words! 
I wish I could think it was funny!” 

He smiled reassuringly. “It’s always the worst part 
of a town about the station, sir.” 

Then I called to the driver: “Jolly up your steeds a 
bit, old man. I say, it isn’t a funeral, you know!” 

He drew himself up, gave a sweep to the whip, and we 
moved on quite respectably for several blocks until we 
turned into a broad street almost entirely arched over 
by huge oak trees—planted in rows on both sides. The 
change was as sudden as delightful, and at once I felt a 
flutter of encouragement. The warm sunlight striking 
through the branches on to the first pale leaves of the 
trees was really beautiful; and back of picket fences some 
attractive residences were coming into view, cottages of 
wood and plaster, larger houses of brick and concrete, and 
farther on a pretentious house of stone. The effect of 
this street, with the lawns about the houses and the walks 
leading up to them from the gate and the quiet tone of the 
surroundings due to the trees, was, on the whole, restful 
and pleasant. 

We continued down the tree-shaded street and stopped 
at last before a house set far back amid shrubbery and 
trees. In front was a high iron fence. 

“Is this the place ?” I called out anxiously. 

“Yas, seh, dis is Miss Neppy’s home. Po’ Miss Neppy! 
She sho wuz good to me!” I caught the expression of 
real grief in his eyes as he got down to open the door of 
the carriage. 

I jumped out and made for the gate and up the long 
walk that led to the house. I must confess I was rather 
charmed with the place; not at any special splendor, for 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


3i 


everything was essentially simple, but with the quiet 
dignity and reserve of the house and grounds. 

I stopped half way up the walk to loiter a moment with 
my first impressions. The house is old and small and 
one-storied and altogether delightful—brick covered with 
stucco painted slate color. A deep veranda extends across 
the front with Doric columns supporting a heavy pedi¬ 
ment, all a little too heavy for architectural perfection, 
but effective in its solidity. The detail work is excellent, 
particularly the arrow and dart of the pediment. The 
front door is wide, painted white and of good Greek de¬ 
sign, with lights at the side and a fanlight above. On 
each side are two broad windows that open on to the 
veranda. There is a vine just budding green at one end 
of the house; there is a huge oak tree that shelters a great 
part of the lawn and extends over the roof; there is a 
high hedge on both sides of the lawn to shield one from 
inquisitive neighbors;—indeed, there is everything that 
one expects to find surrounding a house that has been a 
home. And the place breathes hospitality. 

As I stepped on to the veranda the door opened and I 
found myself confronted by a negro woman. She was 
rather fat, with a deep bosom and a capacious mouth 
which was stretched from ear to ear in a smile of wel¬ 
come. I got an impression of innumerable fine white 
teeth set off by contrast with black skin, a spotlessly neat 
apron, and a general air of good-natured friendliness. 

“I’m Saffy, seh,” she bowed low. “Miss Neppy’s 
cook. You’se her relation, I’se studyin’—an’ I’se sho 
mighty glad to make yo’ ’quaintance. Come in, seh.” 

And I entered. 

The hall was broad and long, dimly lighted, and filled 


32 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


with a fresh, spicy odor that was delicious. I love this 
personal smell of houses; it is quite as characteristic as 
that indefinable fragrance of a charming woman. As 
soon as I was in the hall I felt I was going to like the 
interior. The carpet was of old-fashioned design and 
weave, the walls and ceiling were white and unusually 
high which gives a lofty, spacious expression to the 
house. There is not much furniture in it; at first glance 
I saw a long sofa, some straight chairs, and a marble 
topped table supporting a mirror framed in gilt, in front 
of which was a china vase filled with jonquils. 

While I looked about the negress remained at the open 
door. 

“Is de gem’man”—referring to Perkins—“cornin’ in 
wid you ?” 

“Yes—but don’t wait for him. He’ll bring my valises. 
So this is my cousin’s house! You lived with her a long 
time, I suppose?” 

“Lawdy, yes seh! I’se done libed wid her all ma life. 
Po Miss Neppy!” Here one corner of the spotless apron 
went up to wipe away a tear. “You ain’t neber seen her, 
de Colonel say.” • 

“No. We never met.” 

“Well, seh, she wuz a great lady. Ebery libin’ pus- 
son in dis heah town respected her. An’ de day ob her 
funeral!—’fo’ Gawd, seh, dar neber wuz sich a funeral 
lak Miss Neppy’s! I sho wuz proud for her dat day. 
Dar wuz sixty odd ottermobils in de parade, dar sho 
wuz, not takin’ count ob de buggies an’ hacks. An’ de 
flowers, seh! Hit wuz jest lak a garden—de graveyard, 
seh, whar dey put her away.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


33 


While she talked on, I watched her face changing ex¬ 
pression with the words, depicting pride, sorrow, affec¬ 
tion, and at last a complete satisfaction, due evidently 
to the success of the funeral. There was something very 
nice about her, perhaps it was her friendliness or her in¬ 
genuousness, call it what you will, combined with a 
motherliness which made me have a kindly feeling for 
her at once. There was certainly a great deal of charm 
in her voice with its queer words pronounced in a drawl¬ 
ing, caressing manner. Looking at her, I had a great 
desire to be ill and have her nurse me. I’m sure she 
would do it perfectly. 

“Then my cousin, Miss Claiborne, was popular.” 

“Pop’lar. Well, I reckon she wuz! Will you step 
in de parlor, seh, an’ I kin show you all de crosses an’ 
wreaths folks sent to de funeral. I had Nias bring dem 
back from de graveyard arter de flowers wuz wilted.” 

I followed her into what I took to be the drawing¬ 
room and waited for her to pull up the shade. Through 
the subdued light I saw a remarkable collection of funeral 
designs completely filling the room. She waited for a 
word of admiration from me, then drew close and ad¬ 
dressed me in a much lower voice. 

“Now, seh, if you looks hard at dis heah spot on de 
floor, yo’ll see whar de coffin prints wuz left in de car¬ 
pet. You is standin’ on de exact spot whar Miss Nep- 
py’s coffin stood fur two days an’ two nights—’fo’ de 
funeral.” 

This was getting much nearer to my cousin Penelope 
than I had any desire to be. The smell of the wretched 
designs combined with the coffin marks was too much for 


34 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


me, and I retreated hastily to the.Jiall. She followed me, 
closed the door, and in turning towards me her coun¬ 
tenance changed to one of absolute horror. 

“Gawd A’mighty!” she cried, “I clean forgot I had 
rolls in de oven!” and off she went on a full run towards 
the rear of the house. 

By this time Perkins and the coachman had come in 
with my luggage and, as Saffy did not reappear, I asked 
the driver which was to be my bedroom. He put down 
the two valises he was carrying, cocked his head on one 
side in a querulous sort of pose, and looked at me as if 
considering his reply. 

“Well, seh, dat’s for you to say. De best room is 
down heah—de ole Missus’s room.” 

I followed him to the second door on the right, shud¬ 
dering a little in expectation of more funeral designs 
and coffin prints. To my relief I entered a large room 
filled with sunlight that came in from three windows, 
and comfortably arranged with massive rosewood furni¬ 
ture and the most stupendous four-poster bed I have 
ever seen. This last appears to be an attempt at re¬ 
producing the Parthenon. Immense columns at least 
two feet in diameter, hexagon in form, support a heavy 
pediment which is lined inside with rose silk gathered to 
a gilt star in the centre. There are two steps at the side 
to aid one in arriving at the sleeping department of this 
structure, which looks as if it might be very comfortable 
after one once got there. As for the rest of the room, 
though nothing matters much after the bed, there is a 
gilt-framed mirror over a white marble mantel; on the 
right of this is a bookcase and writing desk combined, on 
the other side a round reading table with a green shaded 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


35 


“student’s” lamp in the centre, some magazines and 
books, and another vase of jonquils. The wall paper 
is an old Georgian design of baskets of roses, the same 
repeated in the carpet which resembles an Aubusson 
tapestry. The very broad windows are without curtains. 

“An’ in heah, seh, is de dressin’ room an’ de bath.” 

I followed my guide through a small dressing room 
into a quite modern bath, with every convenience and 
a pretty decoration of tiles. 

“I don’t see why I shouldn’t be pleased with these 
quarters,” I said, when I had got back to the bedroom. 
The old negro was looking at me a little intently as I said 
this. 

“De Colonel said yo’ is to hab de one dat is ’cordin’ 
to yo notion, seh.” 

“I presume you mean the Colonel to be Mr. Mo- 
rancey?” 

“Yes, seh, dat’s him.” 

“Where are the other bedrooms?” I inquired. 

“T’other side, seh, in front.” 

As Perkins had gone into the hall the old fellow held 
out a detaining hand. “If yo’ please, seh, I can’t ex¬ 
actly tell who de gem’man is wid yo’. He say he ain’t 
yo’ pa—dat he’s yo’ varlet. Mighty sorry, seh, but I 
doesn’t hear de best in de world, and I sho do want to 
know whut kind ob a relation a varlet is.” 

When I explained, his whole countenance showed 
relief. 

“I knows now—he’s yo’ body-sarvant. He ’pears to be 
a powerful nice gem’man for dat. Do he eat at de 
table wid yo’ ?” 

These two questions satisfactorily disposed of, we con- 


36 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

tinued our inspection of the bedrooms and returned to 
my cousin Penelope’s quarters as being the most 
desirable. By this time Saffy had reappeared and an¬ 
nounced that breakfast was on the table, and was thun¬ 
derstruck when I told her I wanted to bathe first, though, 
hearing that I could do it in five minutes, she retreated— 
to put the rolls back in the oven, I suppose. 

The dining room is at the end of the hall. You enter 
it through a door at the end of the hall and find yourself 
in a long room, the high ceiling of which is decorated with 
a heavy plaster cornice in white. The furniture in here 
is also exceptionally heavy and richly carved in a fruit 
design. There is a goodly display of plate, and the glint, 
in cabinets, of nice old porcelain and Bohemian crystal. 
The table was set with beautiful heavy linen, a vase of 
jonquils as a centre decoration, and a tall coffee urn that 
murmured a welcome. 

When I took my seat the display of food was amazing. 
There was a platter of eggs, another of crisp bacon, and 
still another of chops; then a plate of the hot rolls which 
had caused so much anxiety, one of hot muffins, one of 
hot biscuits, and still another of what looked like hot 
cake and which, I was informed, bears the flippant name 
of Sally Lunn. I hope I haven’t overlooked anything. 
At the end of the repast hot waffles were served with 
syrup. 

Before I made a selection I looked up at the old negro 
driver who had donned a white coat and was evidently 
waiting to serve me. 

“My good fellow,” I said, “am I expected to make my 
breakfast of this?” 

He looked apologetic and crestfallen. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


37 

“I tole Saffy it wan’t enough. She* said hit wuz all 
the ole Missus eber had an’ ’nough for anybody.” 

“Enough!” I exclaimed. “Why, there’s enough here 
to feed the Crusaders after the Battle of 'Antioch. Do 
you mean to tell me my cousin Penelope ate a breakfast 
like this every day and still overlived her allotted time?” 

He smiled, evidently comforted. 

“She alius had a good appetite, seh.” 

Evidently she was a gourmand, I thought, and began 
to breakfast. I first chose a roll which had been opened 
and buttered inside—a delightful surprise in itself. It 
was the most delicious, lightest bit of bread I have 
ever eaten. The coffee, too, was excellent, strong and 
hot, with a body to it. As for the other hot breads, 
words fail me. I am ashamed to confess it but I ate 
a little of everything and even took a second feathery 
roll, and a second cup of coffee. After I had eaten 
several waffles I had only one desire left—to be carried 
out into the sunlight and given an already lighted ciga¬ 
rette. As for doing this unaided, it was out of the 
question. 

“By the way, what is your name?” I asked the coach¬ 
man, while trying to make up my mind to rise from the 
table. 

“Nias, seh.” 

“Nias! Is that an African name?” 

“I dunno, seh. Ole Missus named me dat long ’fo’ de 
War. She said hit wuz a name in de Bible—jest lak 
Saffy’s name’s dar too.” 

I pondered a while, attempting to recall such scriptural 
celebrities. Unconsciously, one who has studied art gets 
familiar with these characters, through the old masters' 


38 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

use of them; but I couldn’t remember Nias and Saffy, 
unless they belong in Revelation. 

“Are you sure they are in the Bible?” 

“Lawdy, seh, I’se only takin’ ole Missus’s word for hit. 
I can’t read. She said, dough, dat dey wuz quality 
folks. She tole ma ole ’oman—” 

“Your what?” 

“Ma ole ’oman, Saffy.” 

“You mean that Saffy is your wife?” 

“Well, yas seh, we’se been a-libin together long enough 
for you to call her dat. Hit’s been so long I disremem- 
ber if dar wuz a sho nough marriage or no.” 

“I see. And what did my cousin say to Saffy?” 

“Nothin’ much—’cept dar wuz a sartin man named 
Nias wid Saffy his wife an’ dey wuz struck down stone 
dead by de good Lawd for stealing somethin’ and den 
lyin’ ’bout hit.” 

In a mist of memory I grasped at the story of Ananias 
and Sapphira. “I sincerely hope you and your wife were 
not deserving of such names.” 

“ ’Course not, seh. Ole Missus said she jest gib ’em to 
us as a warnin’.” 

I pulled out my case of cigarettes and choSe one. 
Looking up, I spied Madame Sapphira peeping at me 
through the pantry door. Seeing that I had observed 
her, she gave me a broad grin and then came into the 
room. 

“Hopes you’se pleased wid ma cookin’, seh?” she 
began. 

“I never tasted anything to equal it. You could give 
Marguery lessons.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


39 

“Neber heard tell ob de lady! Be she a friend ob 
yores, seh?” 

“A very good one, though she happens to be a man 
this time—a cordon bleu, and decorated by France. 
Still, you could teach him much.” 

She looked at me with a blank countenance. 

“But you’ll make a wreck of me in a week if you give 
me breakfasts like this. I feel myself swelling already. 
Tomorrow, pray do not tempt me. I am accustomed to 
just coffee and rolls—cold rolls, please—and a litttle 
marmalade.” 

I saw that her expression had changed subtly; her 
hands were on her hips now and her position slightly 
aggressive. “Dar ain’t a’nudder nigger in dis town can 
beat me makin’ light bread!” she burst out at last. 

“It isn’t that, Sapphira. Haven’t I just said you ex¬ 
cel! Unfortunately,”—I had to find some excuse,—“I 
have a weak stomach—since the war.” 

She met this with a burst of laughter. Sence de 
war! Whut kin you know ’bout de war ?” 

“I was in it for almost four years.” 

“You, seh! Dat ain’t possible! You’se too young a 
gem’man. Even dis ole nigger most disremember hit 
herself.” 

Of course I finally realized the amazing fact that we 
were talking about different wars. Her only comment, 
when I explained this, was a completely indifferent: 
“Oh—dat war ober dah.” So we returned to the subject 
of a light breakfast. 

“Yas, seh, all right.” She turned away frankly dis¬ 
appointed, evidently realizing that my faulty digestion 


40 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


was not going to give her the opportunity she craved. 
This is the way of all good cooks; words cannot express 
their contempt for a man with a weak stomach. At 
the door she stopped. “Ole Missus alius had dinner at 
three.” 

“Three o’clock!” I gasped. “What an hour!” 

“Dat’s de time she alius had hit.” 

I bowed assent. There was no use attempting to break 
up a routine which had evidently gone on for eighty-five 
years; in fact, I see that any changes made here will 
have to be done with infinite tact, that is, if I retain 
Ananias and Sapphira, and I have about reached the con¬ 
clusion that the house would be nothing without them. 
They are as much a part of it as the hot bread and the 
fragrance of jonquils. 

At last I made a supreme effort and rose from the 
table, feeling sure that I was an exact reproduction of 
those cartoons of John Bull, and wandering towards the 
door of least resistance, found myself in what must 
have been my cousin’s library. Conspicuously placed 
on the table, as if put there especially to elucidate that 
forgotten lying incident, was a large family Bible. In a 
desultory way I found the index to characters and turned 
to the fifth chapter of Acts. Evidently my cousin was 
fond of this chapter—goodness knows why—for she had 
marked the page by inserting there a much worn one 
hundred dollar bill. A rather reckless thing to do, I 
thought, as I carefully conveyed the bill to my pocket. 
Then I lighted another cigarette and turned towards the 
open window. 

From this window there is visible a nice stretch of 
lawn which ends on the far side in a high hedge. Over 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


4i 


this peeps a one-story, drab-looking little cottage. This 
hedge appears to serve as a fence in lieu of any other 
dividing line between my neighbor’s and my property. 
While I was smoking and indifferently looking out of 
this window which was open, a flash of white in the 
hedge caught my attention, and I saw a woman slip 
through and come swiftly across the lawn towards me. 
When she was near the window where I stood, she 
changed direction and continued towards the rear of the 
house, stopping before the dining room window and rais¬ 
ing herself on tip-toe. From the shadow of the room 
I could look at her without being seen. She was neither 
fat nor thin, but appeared to have a slight figure which 
was clothed in a simple white frock. Her face was 
hidden by a sunbonnet which appeared to be lined with 
pink ruffles. 

She glanced about her to see if anyone were looking, 
then began calling softly: “Saffy! Saffy!” 

The sunbonnet slipped off her head and I saw her face 
for the first time. I must confess, no matter what my 
later impressions have been, that the first sight of her 
was charming. She has a great deal of blackish-brown 
hair not arranged in any special style but appearing to 
lie apart naturally towards the centre. This probably 
gives her a suggestion of the madonna expression which 
her low brow and wide-apart, gentle eyes accentuate. 
Her skin was clear and velvety from a distance, with 
color in her cheeks; and her mouth, held a little open, 
gave a gay look to what otherwise might have been a 
serious countenance. Yes, I thought she was pretty 
when I first looked at her; I even thought she was lovely, 
in a wholesome, natural way. Her age—I can’t say; per- 


42 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


haps twenty, perhaps a little more. But what difference 
does age make provided the woman has charm! 

I drew nearer the window and listened. Call it eaves¬ 
dropping if you will, you would have done it yourself, 
if you had seen her. 

“Saffy—Saffee-ee!” It was a low voice, not exactly 
a drawl, more a lazy tone that somehow suggested long, 
loitering, balmy hours. 

Madame Sapphira finally appeared at the pantry win¬ 
dow, and in a voice overflowing with caressing sweetness, 
began the conversation that was to end so disastrously. 

“I thought I heard you, honey. Whut yo’ wants?” 

My neighbor tip-toed nearer the window. Her voice 
was a mere whisper now. 

“Saffy—has he come?” 

“Sho, he’s done come.” 

“How do you like him?” 

Madame Sapphira debated in a most uncomplimentary 
way, I thought. 

“I ain’t a-gwine to say nothin’ yet-a-while. I kin say 
dis, dough.” 

“Yes? Saffy—” 

“He sho is powerful queer.” 

“How do you mean, Saffy?” 

“I’se gwine to tell you, honey. Yo’ see he talks 
’bout things I nebber heard tell ’bout. He wuz jest 
tellin’ me ’bout a lady he knowed dat cooked, an’ den he 
said hit was a man. Now—I nebber heard ob gem’mans 
called Marguerite, has you?” 

“No—of course not. Go on.” 

“Den,” with a gurgle of amusement, “he do wear de 
funniest clothes I ebber did see. His coat fits him too 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


43 


soon, and his pants is way too little, an’, honey, he’s got 
de funniest way o’ talkin’—I ’most split ma side 
a-laughin’ at him. An’ his hat—hit’s got a little rim an’ 
hit’s all mashed down in de middle lak a pumpkin pie dat 
wouldn’t rise!” 

Here a ripple of suppressed laughter interrupted. 

“But what does he look like—in the face ?” 

“He—well—’twixt me and yo’ he ain’t much to look 
at. He ain’t got ’nough meat on him, ’cordin’ to ma 
notions. He sho don’t look lak a rich gem’man. Dey’s 
alius fat an’ filled out, ain’t it de truf? He’s kind ob 
scrawny an’ washed-out lookin’;—yaller hair, mighty 
white skin, an’ a little moustache dat goes up at de corners 
lak a hairpin.” 

“Oh, Saffy, he must be hideous!” 

“No, I ain’t gwine to say dat. I’se gwine to wait a 
spell for to see if I changes ma mind. Ole Missus alius 
tole me to look twice ’fo’ sayin’ a thing for sartin.” 

“Is he very old?” 

“Gracious, honey, he ain’t ole at all. He ain’t much 
oler dan yo’ is.” 

“I’m so—so sorry. I was hoping he would be a nice 
old gentleman that I could come over and talk to. Of 
course if he’s a young man—” 

“Don’t yo’ worry ’bout dat, honey. He ain’t no ways 
as good to look at as de Colonel. I tell yo’ I’se got 
hit now. He’s de born image ob de young man dat sells 
ribbons down at de Delta store.” 

This, anyone will admit, was more than Sebastian or 
Bartholomew or any of these martyred saints would have 
stood. In a second I had sprung through the window 
and faced Sapphira and the gossiping creature in the 


44 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


sunbonnet. The former did not show any valor and like 
her predecessor disappeared from the scene with an un¬ 
wonted rapidity; the latter, however, remained, paralyzed 
into inactivity, her face the color of the pink ruffles, her 
eyes wide open and fixed upon me. 

I made a profound bow. 

"I thought I would give you the opportunity of judg¬ 
ing what I was like at first hand.” 

I tried to put the sarcasm of the ages into my voice. 
She still stared at me, crimson, her lips trembling slightly. 

“Of course, I am not familiar with southern customs, 
or your attitude towards strangers; I think, though, your 
method of getting information of people from their 
cooks might be—” 

I couldn’t think of any way to end the sentence and 
stopped helplessly. What use is there in trying to be 
haughty, or sarcastic, or clever, or anything, when one is 
angry! It is always ignominious; and I know I failed 
hopelessly in giving any effect of dignity. 

While I waited, her lips trembled violently and she 
covered her face with both hands. I never could bear 
to see a woman weep and, in a flash, it came over me 
what a brute I had been. Why hadn’t I realized that 
all women will gossip, even with their neighbors’ cooks. 
They can’t help it; God made them that way. After all, 
she had not said any of the disagreeable things; it was 
all the work of that infernal, justly named African from 
the kitchen. 

When I saw that she was trembling I took a step to¬ 
wards her. 

“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, “for being so 
rude. I think I went out of my mind for a moment. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


45 

One hates to hear the truth so frankly spoken about one¬ 
self.” Shades of Nannette! 

From behind the hands came a murmur, then a gently 
hesitating voice : “But it wasn’t the truth!” 

This was rather nice of her. After all, I was right; 
she is an unusually pretty girl. 

“You will forgive me for saying what I did?” I con¬ 
tinued. 

“You were quite right.” 

“Then please stop sobbing—if you aren’t angry.” 

Still I couldn’t see her face. I drew nearer and, with 
a quick resolution, took hold of her hands and drew 
them away from her face. The next moment she had 
wrenched them from my grasp and was flying across the 
lawn. The baggage had been laughing at me all the 
time. 

Did I say she was pretty? Well, I lied. To begin 
with she is rather vulgar looking, with too much color 
and too much hair. The pink ruffles she wore give just 
the exact key to her character. They invariably suggest 
a village belle. That she should gossip about a neighbor 
with that neighbor’s cook places her without any more 
comment. She is probably a nurse or governess or, for 
all I know, my neighbor’s cook. I suppose some people 
have white servants down here. It just goes to prove 
that my cousin Penelope did not live to be eighty-five 
without profit. As that black devil said, “Look twice 
’fo’ saying a thing for sartin.” Here I was on the point 
of saying that this gossiping creature was pretty, even 
in spite of the three freckles she has on each side of her 
face between the eyes and the bridge of the nose. First 
impressions are invariably a snare and a delusion. 


46 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


All this I was thinking, standing under the kitchen 
window as if rooted to the spot, when Ananias came 
from round the front of the house looking for me. 
Judging from his pompous bearing, he had an important 
message for me. 

“A leddy’s waitin’ to see yo’, seh.” 

“A lady!” I snapped. “I don’t know any here. Who 
is she?” 

“Miss Josie, seh.” 

“Josie who?” I raised my voice perceptibly. 

“Lawdy, seh, eberybody knows Miss Josie—Miss 
Josie Peyton!” 


CHAPTER III 


Cottonville, April n- 

I am sitting in my cousin Penelope’s bedroom finish¬ 
ing these notes of the day, which I began this afternoon 
and was interrupted by the arrival of the Honorable 
Colonel Morancey. 

It is past midnight and the house is as quiet as a tomb, 
except for the incessant walking up and down of some¬ 
one in a distant room. I suppose it is Perkins, probably 
sleepless after so much travel; or it may be—and it 
ought to be—that abominable Sapphira meditating upon 
her sins of the day; though I don’t think I could hear 
her footsteps as she and Ananias inhabit a two-roomed 
brick cottage detached from and back of the house. 

My cousin’s room is decidedly comfortable. The 
green lampshade gives a homelike glow and concentrates 
the light on the table; the rest of the room is in a gloom 
that seems appropriate for the massive bed which rises 
out of it indistinct and awe-inspiring. I can hardly wait 
to undress and get into it, for I’m sure something un¬ 
usual is going to happen to me after I once get there. 
I do hope though, it will not be a nightmare—that would 
be too mortifying in such majestic surroundings. I 
wonder if there are any “mauvais presages” connected 
with a bed in which someone has recently died! And 
that recalls to me that fragment of de Maupassant’s “Le 
Lit” He says that the three great dramas of life are 
47 


48 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


played in bed: “C’est Id qu’on nalt, c’est Id qu’on dime, 
c’est Id qu’on meurt.” 

The table at which I am writing has for cover a bit of 
green baize, the inkstand is made of shells glued together 
with “Niagara Falls” printed on it. There is a box of 
some black composition decorated with an inset design 
of Windsor Castle in mother-of-pearl and which con¬ 
tains writing paper; there is also a row of books all stand¬ 
ing very properly on their feet so that one can read the 
titles comfortably. The list has interested me with a 
view to throwing some light on my cousin’s character. 
I began at the end and found Young’s “Night Thoughts/’ 
“Fruits of Solitude” by William Penn, “Women of the 
Scriptures,”—here is my opportunity to become better 
acquainted with Sapphira—if I wanted to—“Poetical 
Works of Sir Thomas Moore.” At this last I felt a 
little encouraged and when I picked up “Hamlet” I felt 
quite at home, though “The Prison Life of Jefferson 
Davis” sent me on down the row to six volumes bound 
in calf, all of them on the foundation, rise, and fall of 
the Confederate States of America. From all this I have 
come to the conclusion that cousin Penelope must have 
been a combined likeness of Cassandra and Brunhild. 
I can’t help thinking it is just as well that we did not 
meet. 

The rest of the room is a characteristic melange of 
suitable and unsuitable things, which, taken as a whole, 
makes for comfort and a certain charm. I find this to 
be the case always in a room furnished by a woman. 
No matter how developed a man’s sense of the artistic 
may be, he never quite achieves the success in doing a 
room that a woman does. I suppose the gentle touch, 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


49 


that indefinable air of home, is a prerogative of the sex. 
However, though it does lack artistic feeling, this room 
has a very decided quality of restfulness. In it I feel 
thoroughly contented; and if it were not for the inces¬ 
sant patter of Perkins’s feet, I should be perfectly happy. 

My visitor, announced by Ananias, proved more than 
interesting—she was exciting. Naturally, when I en¬ 
tered the house I was not in my most gracious humor, 
and her haste in calling upon me was surely enough to 
raise one’s doubts. I found her sitting in the hall, a 
little withered bit of a woman dressed in black alpaca— 
always an acknowledgment of poverty—with small, 
fiery brown eyes, a mouth I was sure could snap, and a 
quaint bonnet made of a piece of lace and a jet buckle. 

She rose as I entered and, standing, the bonnet came 
just to my shoulder. 

“Miss Peyton,” I began, “I am much honored by your 
call.” 

“Mrs. Peyton, if you please.” The mouth did snap. 

“I beg your pardon. I understood my man to say 
Miss.” 

Her fiery eyes twinkled as if with a long forgotten 
coquettishness. “It’s a thing one can’t afford to have 
misunderstood at my age.” She said it with piquancy 
and an upward toss of the head that was delightful. It 
is so nice to see old people brave enough to smile and 
dance and be merry. 

“Do you really think it necessary? It was only yes¬ 
terday I was thinking that age made no difference with 
an attractive woman.” 

We had been standing. At this she sat down and I 
drew up a chair. 


50 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“I see you have a trace of southern blood in you.” 
She tapped me on the arm, again coquettishly. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Southern men always know how to say nice things 
to ladies; and they do it a little better than any others.” 

“I see. I didn’t know that.” 

“But your theory is bad.” 

“My theory! What theory?” She was going a little 
too fast for me. 

She laughed companionably. “About a woman’s age 
making no difference. For instance, do you think you 
appreciate my visit as much as you would that of a 
young, beautiful, charming girl of eighteen? Of course 
you don’t!” 

I debated a moment. She was right, yet I couldn’t 
admit it and sought an evasion. 

“You forget such a wonderful being would not come 
to see me.” 

I believe she enjoyed my method of escape, for she 
laid her hand on my arm. 

“My dear boy, I’m glad I came to see you at once. I 
believe I’m going to like you very much—in spite of your 
father having hired a substitute to fight for him in the 
War.” 

“My father hired a substitute!” I gasped. “What do 
you mean? My father died long before the War.” 

“I’m speaking of our War.” 

“Oh!” I exclaimed. “You mean the War of the 
Rebellion?” 

Her expression changed precipitately. 

“Young man,” from her tone one would have thought 
I had insulted her, “don’t let me hear such infamous 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


5i 

words come from your lips! And, of all places, under 
this roof! Heaven protect us!” 

It was all quite beyond me. I could not understand 
how she should take offense at anything I had said; in¬ 
deed, if anyone should be offended, it was I, at her ac¬ 
cusation against my father. I had about decided that 
she was a bit mad—regretting it sincerely, too, for she 
had a quickness about her that was rather nice—when 
she settled back more calmly in her chair. 

“Your ignorance is your excuse,” she continued. “I 
should not have lost my temper. I beg your pardon. 
Forgive me.” 

“I will, under one condition—that you explain what 
you mean. First, you say my father was a coward and 
then—” 

“Then you ask me if it was during the War of the 
Rebellion. Don’t you know what such a name for our 
War means? To call it a Rebellion—a war that was a 
war for our just rights, a war to retain the property 
that you had found unsuited to the North and sold to 
us, the property in which we had put all our money—our 
slaves. No, it was not a war of Rebellion, it was a war 
of Rights. If you speak of it at all, young man, refer 
to it as the War of the Confederate States of America.” 

“I am very much obliged to you. I will try not to 
offend again in the same place.” My meekness appeared 
to soothe her. 

“Yes—I’m glad I was the one you used such an ab¬ 
horrent term to first.” She smiled indulgently. “You 
see I travel in the summer and that always makes one 
more lenient. Yes, I go to the springs in Virginia 
every year.” 


52 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

If she represents the broad type of Cottonville I 
wonder what the narrow can be! 

“But my father/’ I began. “You say he hired a sub¬ 
stitute to fight for him?” 

“I did not actually say so. I assumed it.” 

“By what right?” I was working myself into a state 
of indignation. 

“From my knowledge of similar cases.” 

“Then, for the simple reason that such a thing was 
done, you immediately assume that my father did so! 
Your arrival at a conclusion is slightly hysterical.” 

She flushed, but gave no sign of retreat. 

“Wasn’t he from Massachusetts?” Her tone inferred 
that this was enough to prove him guilty of any charge. 

“He was,” I answered proudly. “And there were 
many brave men who came from Massachusetts. Take 
for example—” I knew I was floundering into my pet 
aversion, history; then as an inspiration I thought of 
Miss Mary Anne Fox’s cat—“Take for example Myles 
Standish!” 

She smiled condescendingly. “I’m speaking of our 
War period.” 

What could I say? I regretted a thousand times in 
one second that I had not studied this war question. 
Then came the memory of my neighbor in Lowell. I 
almost hurled my reply at her: “There was one, though, 
a tremendous man!” 

“Name him! I defy you!” 

I steadied myself for the thrust. “Butler,” I said, 
slowly and very distinctly. 

She sprang from her chair and faced me, a most ex¬ 
traordinary expression on her little weazened counte- 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


53 

nance. She tried to speak, couldn’t, mumbled a word or 
two and choked. Finally she got it out. 

“Do you mean Ben Butler?” 

“Exactly,” I replied with much dignity. 

She sank down in her chair with something like a 
moan. Feeling that she was on the verge of a fit or 
some sort of a fainting spell, I made a dash for the din¬ 
ing room to summon aid and fell into Sapphira’s arms. 
“Bring water, quick,” I cried, and fled back to my guest. 
To my surprise I found her thoroughly composed. She 
had taken off her bonnet and sat with her hands clasped 
about it in her lap, a far-away gaze in her small, shining 
eyes. 

She thanked Sapphira for the water, drank every drop 
of it, and met my eyes again, hers drawn together a 
little. 

“Did you ever hear of Butler’s decree?” 

“No.” I had determined to be honest with her, which 
sometimes saves a lot of bother, though, for that matter, 
lying does too. 

“Are you familiar with the siege of New Orleans?” 
“No.” 

“You never heard the story of the stolen silver?” 

“No.” 

“Then you don’t know anything about the War?” 

“I suppose I did as a child, but I’ve forgotten it all. 
You see, I’ve been living in France for twenty years.” 

Her sigh of relief came from the heart. She put 
out her hand and took mine and gave it a nice, warm 
clasp. 

“My dear boy, if you had only told me that at first. 
I’ve never come so near fainting in my life.’ 


54 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“Aren’t you going to explain to me why I shocked 
you?” 

She looked at me pityingly. “You have praised Ben 
Butler to a Louisiana woman.” 

“Still—that explains nothing to me.” 

“Til send you a book that will tell you the story better 
than I can. But you must promise me one thing, that 
you will not discuss the War with anyone here till you’ve 
read about it.” 

“If I can avoid it, certainly. But if they begin it as 
you did, what then?” 

“All of them won’t. You see, unfortunately, the new 
generation does not know much about it. But I like 
you enough to want you not to make a bad start here. 
If you promise not to praise Ben Butler, I will not 
refer to your father hiring a substitute.” She ended 
with a smile which meant that this was a little joke be¬ 
tween us. 

“Why did you do that, anyway?” 

“I wanted to see if you had spunk enough in you to 
resent it. As a rule New England people are too cold. 
It’s the natural result of sustaining life for too long a 
time on pie crust and rhubarb. But you are different.” 

“You think so?” 

“Yes, indeed. You have lived away from them long 
enough to throw off the chill.” I shall write this to 
Nannette at once. “And now that we have become such 
good friends, I’ll tell you why I came to see you.” I 
took a long breath to reinforce myself for further shocks. 
“I am President of the Cottonville Chapter of the 
Daughters of the Confederacy. We are building a home 
here for old Confederate soldiers. You see, all of them 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


55 


are very old men now and most of them have nothing 
and no one to care for them. Unlike your old soldiers, 
they do not draw a pension, having fought against the 
government that supports yours. You understand that 
much?” Her eyes twinkled at me, full of fun. “In 
this Home for Veterans are to be twenty rooms, each to 
hold two men. Our association and contributors have 
put up the building, but that has exhausted all the money 
and we have nothing left to furnish the rooms. So I’m 
asking prominent people of the town to take rooms and 
furnish them, each one giving the room his name or an 
“In Memoriam” title. You know how much more you 
can get out of people if their names are made prominent. 
Miss Claiborne was very much interested in our plan and 
would have furnished a room, had she lived. So of 
course I expect you to do it.” This last with a finality 
that admitted no excuses. 

My thoughts flew off at once into realms that were 
always so absorbing to me. I suppose it is my archi¬ 
tectural interest. 

“It sounds delightful,” I replied. “I’m always hap¬ 
piest when I have something to do with a house. You 
see, I’m something of an architect by profession. Now, 
let me see, what are your colors?” 

“Colors of what?” 

“Your flag, and the uniform of your veterans.” 

“Red and white are the Confederate colors; the uni¬ 
form is grey. But what has that got to do with fur¬ 
nishing the room?” 

I verily believe she thought I was trying to avoid the 
subject. 

“What an excellent selection for old men!” I ex- 


56 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

claimed. “Grey for the foundation, with its hint of 
the oncoming nether world; and red and white to 
soften this suggestion and lend a cheery note. I can 
see it already—grey walls, white woodwork, and deep 
red rugs on the floor. And then there must be etchings 
of generals and battles on the walls. I believe it will 
be most successful—and so patriotic!” 

She watched me doubtfully through this, hardly an ap¬ 
proving expression, more suggestive of tolerance for an 
imaginative child. 

“I don’t know so much about the pictures of battles and 
generals. It seems to me a pretty calendar of a young 
girl would be lots more homelike.” 

There was that woman’s touch of comfort again. It 
will crop out. 

“Then we’ll have daughters of the regiment instead,” 
I agreed, and with regret saw her rise. She held out 
her hand and, clasping mine, gave me a long look. 

“I’ll leave all that to you. You can do what you want 
with the room provided you foot the bills. All this 
artistic foolishness never did interest me; and I’m too old 
now to bother with it.” I followed her to the door 
where she stopped again and looked at me. “You’re a 
nice boy. I have a warm spot in my heart for you al¬ 
ready—even if you did come from Massachusetts.” 

“Via Paris,” I put in. 

“Yes, it’s probably due to that. You must come to 
see me, even if I am an old lady and a bore.” 

“You a bore—never!” I bowed low; when I looked up 
her old face had softened wonderfully. 

“I always wanted a boy. I reckon that’s why I like 
them so. Good-bye.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


57 


I watched her till the gate had swung to after her 
and she was gone. Then I crumpled up in a rocking 
chair on the front veranda and smoked for an hour or 
more. With two such encounters before noon on the 
first day of my arrival, I could not help exclaiming: 
“What next!” 

I am not so favorably impressed with Colonel Mo- 
rancey. I do not like his eyes. They are light blue, 
more a green, small and round and hard. They glitter 
and never look straight at you. And eyes are so much 
more important than any other feature; a man may have 
short legs, a hump on his back, no hair, and a hooked 
nose, and yet if he have the right sort of eyes women 
will leave comfortable homes and indulgent husbands 
to follow him: It’s the history of the world. It was 
the eyes of Paris that drew Helen from Menelaus, though 
Menelaus was too much of a home-body and Helen never 
liked the hearth till she had tried so many that rheu¬ 
matism ensued. Then there was Nero who lost out be¬ 
cause he had weak eyes and had to run around looking 
at the world through an emerald. Of course Napoleon 
had eyes you couldn’t get away from, they were impu¬ 
dent too; and Saint Francis had eyes that taught us to 
suffer and hope. One may be sure that a man with fine, 
intelligent, steady eyes embodies the same traits in his 
character. Of course this does not apply to women. 
Lafcadio Hearn says that oriental eyes are much prettier 
than western eyes, that we show the mechanism too 
much, while in the East all that is hidden; but one must 
remember that he had a Japanese wife. Give me a man 
that will look me squarely in the eye and grasp my hand 
in a warm clasp and every time IT 1 trust him; IT 1 do 


58 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


more than that, I’ll like him. But not so with Colonel 
Morancey; he neither looked me in the eye nor gave me 
a hearty hand shake,—hence I do not like him and I do 
not trust him. 

I must confess though that he is good looking. He 
has evidently been let off from the disagreeable things 
of life. It is wonderful how perfectly rosy and bloom¬ 
ing he looks, for he must be over seventy. So far as I 
can see, everyone here is. He dresses well, if a little in¬ 
dividual in style, wearing today a light brown suit with 
silk-faced lapels of the same color, a white waistcoat and 
a quiet tie of mauve that fitted in well with the color of 
his clothes. His fresh complexion, white hair, and a 
white rose as boutonniere accentuate the impression of 
neatness. I couldn’t help saying to myself all the time 
he was here, “clean as a new pin.” He is tall, the 
white waistcoat is very comfortably filled, and the 
ensemble makes one admit that he is a gentleman. He 
would be considered that anywhere. Yet I don’t like 
him. 

It was late in the afternoon when Ananias came in 
to tell me, with awe in his voice, that Colonel Morancey 
had come. I found him on the porch walking up and 
down with hands clasped behind him. I have an idea 
that he thought it a becoming pose, slightly suggestive 
of sadness, just the proper touch to show his appreci¬ 
ation of the situation. 

He came towards me benignantly and looked beyond 
me as he shook hands. 

“This is a pleasure I have been anticipating for several 
months, my dear sir. You can’t imagine what the 
realization means to me.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


59 


Slightly surprised at this effusiveness, I invited him to 
come into the house, but he said that, if I didn’t mind, 
he would rather remain on the veranda for a while in 
the beautiful spring twilight. The season of resurrec¬ 
tion always stirred him so, and had I noticed the fra¬ 
grance of the violets, my cousin’s violets being celebrated 
for their perfume; and the twitter of birds homing to the 
trees at twilight was so soothing. I followed by his 
side, silent, while this harangue on the beauties of Nature 
continued. When dusk came on with a chill in the air 
he consented to go in, but not before an incident oc¬ 
curred that recalled the morning forcibly. In the midst 
of his beauties-of-Nature discourse, he stopped suddenly 
and looked towards the street. I followed his glance 
and saw a young woman passing. When she turned 
into the adjoining gate beyond the hedge I recognized 
her. 

“That is the most charming girl in our town,” he said, 
with a simpler manner than he had yet employed. “It 
will be my great pleasure to present you to her and her 
mother. Her father was a most distinguished young 
officer in the late unpleasantness between the North and 
the South.” 

I murmured something and continued listening, which 
was exactly what he wanted me to do. We went into 
the library which Ananias calls the study, and sat down, 
the Colonel on one side of the table, I near the window. 
The lamps were lighted and the light, falling full upon 
him, brought out becomingly the effect of white hair 
and pink skin. His “next to godliness” characteristic 
is a great asset. 

“I wish you’d tell me how you knew where I was?” 


6 o 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I asked, the first opportunity I had to interrupt his 
generalizations. 

“Ah, my dear boy, we've had our eyes on you for 
several years.” 

“Really?” I was surprised and showed it. 

“Now I beg of you not to be worried. It was not a 
critical eye; it was only to know where you were.” 

“I'm sure I had no objections to its being critical,” I 
put in tartly. 

“Of course not—I know, I know.” He held up his 
hand deprecatingly. “I was once a boy myself—though 
not in Paris.” He ended with a sly glance at me meant 
to be humorous. Somehow it did not amuse me. 

“It’s not a bad place for a boy—no worse than any 
other. It is only a provincial idea of Paris that gives 
it the reputation of being an immoral city. Paris is 
rarely vulgar.” 

My quick attack on the subject left him undecided. 
He is the type that wishes to control the conversation 
and direct its course. I determined I would not let him 
do it. 

“Do you know Paris?” I began again. 

“No, I have never been abroad.” 

“I love Paris. I hated to come away from it—even 
for a short time.” 

At this he actually looked me squarely in the eye. 

“You mean that you are not going to remain here?” 

“I don't see how I can—do you?” 

“You mean—?” 

“I'm accustomed to a city where I carried on my 
profession—such as it was. There I had a few friends 
about me and all the interests I love. I really don’t see 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


61 

how I’m going to get along without them. It must be 
frightfully stupid here, isn’t it? How does one amuse 
oneself in a place like this?” 

He was still watching me, though now with his side- 
long glance. 

“We have a pretty nice social life, I think. We have 
a city club, and a country club, and in the winter there 
are the theatres. We sometimes have the plays from 
New York. But—about your not remaining?” 

“Yes. Is that possible?” 

“You mean you want to break Miss Claiborne’s will?” 

“Yes—if I can.” 

“My dear young man, do you realize what you are 
saying?” 

“Is it so dreadful! I don’t see why my cousin should 
expect me to bury myself in a little town where I cannot 
possibly have any interests. And as for living here five 
years, it’s unheard of. Forgive my frankness, but what 
in the name of goodness would I do here for five years?” 

“Yet, that is exactly what your cousin wanted you to 
do; stay here and saturate yourself with the spirit of 
the place.” 

“To serve what possible purpose?” 

“To make you understand what your side of the family 
never did.” 

“Still—what earthly good will it amount to?” 

I think I had him there. I went on: “You see I’m 
now thirty and though so far I’ve made nothing of my 
life, still, if I’m ever going to, I ought to be at it. My 
tendencies are such that they will shrivel up and die with¬ 
out development, and I’m sure there is no way of develop¬ 
ing artistic tendencies here. I don’t think I’m talking 


62 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


nonsense. It will mean giving up any hope of a career 
if I remain here.” 

“Did you have so much success in Paris ?” 

I blushed furiously at his pointed question; then I 
answered hotly: “No, IVe been nothing but a failure 
since the time I had to support myself. But I have great 
hope still.” 

“In architecture?” 

“Yes.” 

“Miss Claiborne left you some very valuable suburban 
property and you have a good amount of ready money to 
start developing this property, by putting up buildings 
there. It is in an admirable part of town to erect cot¬ 
tages for the laboring class. Why not try your hand 
at that?” 

I threw back my head and laughed. 

“My dear Colonel Morancey, you misunderstand me 
entirely. It is not the designing of one-story cottages in 
a provincial town that I want to do; it is Hotels de Ville, 
Cathedrals, Palaces, edifices that will stand for centuries, 
which people will travel to see and remember that I de¬ 
signed. No workingmen’s suburban homes for me!” 

He looked me straight in the eye and said: “Are you 
sure you do not mean to say that you like to dream of 
doing such things ?” 

I rose impatiently and took a turn about the room. I 
did not want him to see that I was angry, yet I was boil¬ 
ing over for the fourth time that day. My ill humor be¬ 
gan at the station in finding such a dilapidated vehicle to 
meet me. This had just subsided when the gossiping 
episode occurred, following on the heels of which came 
the war conversation. Now the day was ending with this 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 63 

egoist sitting up in his old-school manner and telling me I 
was a dreamer. 

“Dreamer or not, I don’t intend to stay here!” 

“You will forfeit the property?” 

“Of course not.” 

“If you don’t stay here you will.” 

“I expect you to get me out of it.” 

“How can I? It’s in the will.” 

“You can get round it some way. There is a way out 
of everything.” 

He laughed for the first time, a surprisingly hearty 
laugh too, though it maddened me. 

“Please don’t laugh,” I demanded. “It makes me 
nervous. I’ve had a rather eventful day and I’m a little 
on edge. Besides, I’m quite serious about the will.” 

He was solemn in a moment. 

“I knew you would want to break the will. It is en¬ 
tirely natural for a young man to feel that way about it. 
I told your cousin that and she said, for that reason, to 
make the will so it could not be broken. I did. It’s im¬ 
possible for you to get out of it—except by giving up the 
property.” 

“Then I’ll get nothing if I go away?” 

“Not one cent.” 

“And the money you sent me to Paris?” 

“That will be my loss.” 

“How shall I get back there ?” 

“I shall be glad to lend you the amount necessary.” 

It is too exasperating for words. And to feel myself 
already in this man’s debt! The whole affair is enough 
to drive me mad. 

He went on in what I suppose he considered an en- 


64 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


couraging tone: “I think you will find it pretty inter¬ 
esting here. There are the new lots to put up houses on. 
(A plague upon the lots!) There is your plantation to 
occupy you several days out of each month, for you must 
go there and inspect the work of the manager. (Curse 
the plantation and the manager!) Then you have this 
nice house. (Infernal house!) And I know you’ll find 
the townfolk hospitable and friendly.” (Damn the 
townfolk!) 

I begged him to stop. I couldn’t stand the enumera¬ 
tion of all these so-called attractions. At last I told him 
that if he would advance me enough money I would clear 
out at the end of the week and leave the whole rotten 
business to him to straighten up. He saw that I meant 
it and appeared sincerely alarmed. He said I was rush¬ 
ing into a decision without serious consideration. He 
insisted that I should delay my departure for at least a 
month. 

“By that time you will have given it a fair trial.” 

“A month would only aggravate what I now feel.” 

“You can never tell. Are you not willing to risk that 
much time? Is not that much due to your cousin who 
wanted to leave you everything she had?” 

I had not thought of it in that way, and the question 
struck me as a reasonable one. I sat down with a thud. 

“All right, Colonel Morancey, I’ll fight it out for a 
month. God help me!” 

He rose, took my hand in his fishy grasp and shook it 
limply; then he tapped a bell on the table, and to my sur¬ 
prise Ananias appeared with a decanter of Madeira and 
glasses. 

“You will pardon me for intruding upon your duties 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 65 

as host,” he explained most graciously, “but Nias has 
been doing this for me for forty years and more.” He 
filled a glass for me and one for himself. “This,” he 
added, looking in my direction, “is with the hope that one 
month will make you want to stay five years.” 

I smiled incredulously while he smacked his lips— 
execrable habit—over the wine. Then we rose and went 
out on the veranda together. 

“I have an invitation for you to take tea at seven 
o’clock tomorrow.” I shall never get used to these 
strange meal hours. Tea at seven! “It is from Mrs. 
Bruce, your neighbor. It was her daughter we saw pass 
by on the street. She and her mother live there alone. 
They were Miss Claiborne’s most intimate friends, and 
Mrs. Bruce said she wanted you to break bread with her 
first in Cottonville. Will you accept?” 

I wondered if the invitation were good after the morn¬ 
ing incident. However, I was willing to risk it. What 
difference does it make? It will help to pass the time. 
I accepted. 

“Then I shall call for you tomorrow at half-past six. 
I trust you will sleep well. If you hear any queer noises, 
don’t think they are ghosts.” This last with another 
quick, sidelong glance at me. “Perhaps you would not 
mind coming down to my office in the morning.” I 
thought this a good suggestion and he gave me full di¬ 
rections how to get there. 

He may have expected me to ask him to stay to supper 
—that is what the evening meal is called here—and I 
really intended to do it, but I couldn’t. I was tired out 
and peevish and wanted to be alone. 

I feel better now and somehow am growing more 


66 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


reconciled to the idea of remaining a month, possibly due 
to a new feeling of duty towards my cousin Penelope. 
The thought has come to me that perhaps Colonel Mo- 
rancey was in love with her, or she with him. Every¬ 
thing points to a great intimacy—particularly the Madeira 
that Ananias has brought in for forty years. I wonder 
if there was an affair. ... I must tell Perkins to cut 
out his nocturnal promenades. Its regularity is annoy¬ 
ing. . . . And now for the ancestral couch. I hardly 
have the courage to wear such modern garb as pyjamas 
in such an ancient temple; one should throw oneself upon 
it naked and be covered with beaver or white bear. . . . 
I wonder what that giggling, gossiping creature will say 
when she meets me tomorrow. 


CHAPTER IV 


April 12- 

When I opened my eyes this morning the first thing I 
spied was the plaited silk canopy of the bed; and when I 
realized that I was stretched upon my cousin Penelope’s 
ancestral couch, I stifled a yawn. It was very soft and 
luxurious and being so high from the floor gave me a 
feeling of great superiority and aloofness from the mere 
vulgarities of life. I should always advise one who has 
suffered from lack of self confidence or who has been 
slighted in any way, to try sleeping in a high bed. It 
gives one as much backbone as a strong tonic. I even 
got as far as thinking leniently of the remarks I had 
heard about myself the day before. And in this pleasant 
mood, I gradually became conscious of someone playing 
a piano, playing it extremely well, too—and extraordi¬ 
narily well chosen music. Who in this forgotten corner 
of the world could possibly play like that! I must have 
been dreaming. 

In the dining room I found Ananias woefully sur¬ 
veying a plate of toast and the coffee pot. I am sure it 
was to him an ill omen of oncoming poverty. He had 
never served a meal so frugal. He or someone—I shall 
refrain from mentioning obnoxious names as long as 
possible—had added a grapefruit to my menu which I 
found most acceptable. 

When I began on the toast Ananias could restrain his 
disapproval no longer. 


67 



68 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“I tuk hit on maself, seh, to tell Saffy to beat up some 
waffles for you, providin’ dis want ’nough for yo\ 
Dey’s ready ef yo’ll have ’em, seh.” 

I never had any resisting power so I told him to bring 
them in, remembering how deliciously crisp they had 
been the day before, with such good butter and this ex¬ 
cellent syrup they call molasses. It does seem an unheard 
of dish for breakfast, although I recall a breakfast in 
Russia where buckwheat cakes with sour cream and 
caviar were served. 

At the end of the meal I was feeling pleasant enough 
to call the objectionable name. 

“Ananias, I shall make a call on Colonel Morancey this 
morning, and while I am gone I wish you would tell Sap- 
phira to remove all those funeral designs from the 
drawing-room and eradicate the coffin prints. If she 
can’t rub them out tell her to cover them with a rug; 
and air the room thoroughly.” 

“Yas, seh, an’ whar does yo’ want de—de—” 

“The funeral designs?” 

“ ’Xactly, seh. Whar does yo’ want dem put?” 

“Anywhere. In the attic, I suppose.” 

“De attic, seh!” He looked at me in amazement. 

“Yes, the attic. Hasn’t this house one ? Most houses 
have.” 

“Yas, seh, dar’s an attic; but we doesn’t use hit.” 

“Then begin today.” 

I rose and went towards the hall, noticing his expres¬ 
sion again as I passed through the door, a covert, watch¬ 
ful, almost alarmed look bent on me. He is an odd old 
duck. I think I’ll enjoy studying him as a type. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 69 

I found Perkins overlooking my things, in the bed 
room. 

“Perkins,” I began, “after last night’s promenade, I 
should think you would need a protracted rest cure. To¬ 
night, if you get impatient or homesick for the boule¬ 
vards, or whatever it may be, kindly do not take it out in 
walking up and down your room. If I had been nervous, 
it would have kept me awake.” 

He put down a coat and looked at me surprised 

“Beg pardon, sir, I thought it was you.” 

“You mean it was not you?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Then it must have been one of the negroes, though I 
supposed their rooms were too far away for sounds to 
be heard. However, tell them not to let it happen again.” 

I strolled out to the front veranda. It was a beautiful 
morning, balmy with spring air and filled with the glory 
of sunlight, a radiance that warms the soul and stirs into 
activity the very best in one. I have always thought it 
a great piece of stupidity that prisoners are usually exe¬ 
cuted just as the sun appears. Why not wait a few 
hours and give the poor devils a chance to drink in some 
of the encouragement of its message, for it must mean 
some form of hope even to murderers. This morning it 
was gilding everything; the box bordering the front walk 
was tinged with gold, the bricks laid zigzag were show¬ 
ing unexpected depths of metallic color, the stretch of 
lawn was that pale amber green of early spring, and the 
huge oak tree which looks as if it wanted to spread over 
the world, was a network of awakening branches that 
resembled Damascene in its black and gold intricacies. 


70 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


There is much about the house and grounds that is at¬ 
tractive, its personality being made up of enough con¬ 
trast to give it variety. For instance there is a vine, and 
no house should be without a vine. It is just budding 
and I can see from the main branches that in leaf it 
will quite cover one end of the veranda. Then, outside 
of cousin Penelope’s bed room is a flower garden which 
already gives a great deal of promise. The beds are laid 
off with borders of box in quaint designs which suggest 
an English topiary garden. In the centre is a small 
pavilion of lattice and towards the rear a broad expanse 
of rose beds. Everything is at the resurrection period 
except some rows of jonquils and crocus and hyacinths 
which are in full blossom. Beyond the rose beds is a 
high hedge of English privet and back of this a vege¬ 
table garden that extends to the heavy board fence which 
marks the end of the property. On the dining room 
side is a low greenhouse, more a forcing bed, sunk into 
the ground and covered with glass. Here I found a 
beautiful collection of flowering begonias. Directly back 
of the kitchen is a paved space on which the two-roomed 
building occupied by Ananias and Sapphira gives. On 
either side of this building are some peach and pear trees 
and a thick cluster of fig trees. The front of the house 
is an unbroken stretch of lawn to the street; and 
the street is far enough away to give the house pri¬ 
vacy. 

These are to be my exterior surroundings for the next 
month. If I were an author it would be a delightful 
place to forget the cares of the world and to live in an 
imaginary existence; not having any tendency towards 
that much over-crowded profession, I look upon it all with 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 71 

a critical eye, with impatience and more resentment, and 
with the irritating feeling that, if it had not been forced 
upon me, I should have found it charming. 

Colonel Morancey telephoned me that it was necessary 
for him to attend a directors’ meeting this morning and 
for me not to come to his office. However, at half-past 
six he appeared, not in evening dress which I had donned, 
but wearing a dark sack coat, striped trousers, a rose on 
his lapel, a white silk tie, and looking fresh and buoyant. 
I hope I shall look as well at his age. 

We went over to my neighbor’s formally. By that I 
mean we went out of my gate, along the street, and in at 
her gate. I did not mention that there was a short cut 
through the hedge nor the encounter of yesterday morn¬ 
ing, though I must confess I felt some qualms as to the 
outcome. My feeling was a combination of guiltiness 
for the display of anger I had made and a resentment 
towards the young woman who had so little self-respect 
as to act as she had. I tried to make myself think I was 
indifferent, though as a matter of fact I was still furious; 
yet, after all, it is foolish of me to feel this way, for 
this is only a small town and it may be entirely cus¬ 
tomary to gossip with neighbors’ cooks about one’s 
neighbors. 

Fancy my surprise when she opened the door! She 
welcomed Colonel Morancey first. Then, as he pre¬ 
sented me, she gave me a pleasant hand clasp she has a 
cool, firm, soft hand—and looked me squarely in the eyes 
with no acknowledgment of any previous meeting. It 
was clever of her, in a way, though I expected some 
drooping of the lids or a furtive curve to the corner of a 
lip. It would have shown more delicacy, I think, though 


72 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


it would have lost her an opportunity to display her 
histrionic talent which is as much a part of every wom¬ 
an’s character as coquetry. 

She preceded us into the front room, a spotlessly clean 
little place with dimity curtains, some nice old Georgian 
furniture, a vase or two of fresh flowers, and a grand 
piano that filled half the small room. I seized upon this 
latter at once. 

‘‘Then I was not dreaming this morning!” My evi¬ 
dent surprise brought a smile to her lips. 

“I do play—yes.” 

“Sibelius’ Valse Triste?” 

“You know it ?—You love music ?” She came towards 
me with a glow of enthusiasm which she quickly checked. 
“I’m so—so glad,” she murmured, blushing at her im¬ 
petuousness. “So few do, here.” 

“And Brahms’ Valtzes?” 

“Yes—and Tchaikowsky—it’s all poetry—” She 
broke off abruptly and looked at Colonel Morancey with 
a smile of apology. “Do sit down. Mother will be 
here in a moment. She had to take a look at the Sally 
Lunn.” 

I glanced at her as she sat down—I had remained at 
the piano looking over the music—and while she talked to 
Colonel Morancey I had time to observe her. My first 
impression was correct; she is pretty, though, as I said 
before, in an obvious way. The trick her hair has of 
falling apart in the middle is fetching; and I like the low 
line of her forehead and the shadowed eyes. She wore 
a simple white frock with no pretense at style. Around 
her waist was a ribbon in a well-chosen shade of pink, 
that, in the back, formed a chou with long ends. As I 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


73 


say, her costume was entirely without what is usually 
called fashion, yet it had something chic about it, a fresh¬ 
ness that made her appearance dainty—not that fragile¬ 
ness of Dresden china which authors are so fond of using 
—a certain crispness that was pleasing. In a word she 
looked clean and fragrant, two qualities not to be scorned. 
Her hands and feet are small and well-formed; the latter, 
encased in patent leather pumps and thin black silk stock¬ 
ings, appeared to me foolishly small after the feet and 
shoes of French women which I have been accustomed to 
for so long. 

Her mother came into the room so quietly that I think 
she must have been there several moments before I knew 
it. When I had held her hand and heard her low voice 
and looked into her still beautiful face—for she must be 
over sixty and has retained her beauty naturally; I mean 
she has grown old in a dignified way, carrying all the 
charm of her youth along with her and letting it change 
into a gentleness that makes wrinkles and grey hair and 
stooping shoulders qualities to be proud of—I realized I 
was in the presence of a woman whose refinement would 
distinguish her anywhere. 

She sank down in a chair very softly—all her move¬ 
ments are ever so gentle and quiet—and looked at me. 

“Pm certainly glad to be the first to welcome you to 
our town,” she began. “Miss Claiborne and I have been 
friends ever since the War when I came here to live. 
Naturally I felt it not only a pleasure but an obligation to 
be the first to welcome you to your new home. Miss 
Claiborne was always a second mother to me.” 

“But you are not the first, Mrs. Bruce,” Colonel Mo- 
rancey interrupted. “Miss Josie got ahead of you.” 


74 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“You have already broken bread with her?” 

“No. Colonel Morancey is referring to her call yes¬ 
terday—just after I arrived.” 

“Isn’t that like her!” Mrs. Bruce exclaimed, though 
not critically. “Her energy is marvellous to me. She 
should have been a governor, or a steamboat captain, or 
a plantation manager. She would have been a great suc¬ 
cess at any undertaking.” 

“I fear I made a frightful impression on her,” I com¬ 
mented. 

“How do you mean ?” 

“First, by being born in Massachusetts; second, by 
being grossly ignorant of the War of the Reb . . .—the 
War of the Sec . . .—I mean the Civil War.” I got 
it right at last. 

“That is easy to understand if one knows that you have 
lived so long away from the United States.” 

“I’m so glad you do understand!” I laughed, relieved. 
“And you will help me, won’t you? If I had only con¬ 
fessed to her at the beginning that I didn’t know a thing 
about it I should not have made the gaffe I did.” 

“What did you say?” 

I told her and saw her lean back in her chair with her 
handkerchief to her face and laugh quietly, but ever so 
heartily. 

“Of all people in the world to say such a thing to! I 
wish I had been there!” she added, drying her eyes. 
“But I shall hear of it—with a wealth of detail, too.” 

“I don’t believe you will,” I answered. “She said she 
was not going to ruin my prospects here by telling it 
on me.” 

“I wonder if she can keep it!” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


75 


“Tm sure she will,” Colonel Morancey put in; “at least 
till you have furnished that room at the Veterans’ Home.” 

“In the meantime please tell me what I did—or rather 
what General Butler did?” 

Just then a negro woman announced tea and Mrs. 
Bruce rose and laid her hand on my arm. “Get Colonel 
Morancey to explain it to you sometime. It is a very 
sore spot to all Southerners—especially those who lived 
in New Orleans, as Miss Josie did.” This as we went 
into the dining room, which adjoined the front room. 

The “tea” developed into supper, another feast of hot 
breads, much like the meal Sapphira gave me last night, 
and consisted of chicken cooked in a new way to me. 
They call it “smothered” and it is something like en 
casserole, except that the sauce is made of water poured 
over the chicken and thickened with butter and seasoned 
with coarse black pepper. With this we had a dish called 
“spoon bread,” a sort of pudding of corn meal and eggs; 
and, of course, hot rolls. Cafe au lait was served at the 
same time. There were also tomatoes stuffed with celery 
and mayonnaise; and as dessert delicious preserved figs 
with whipped cream and a cake made of layers filled with 
sugar and nuts. Each dish was well cooked and well 
flavored. This characteristic food which I have never 
known before is a constant surprise to me. I’m thinking 
of collecting the recipes and sending them to some of 
my restaurateur friends in Paris. It would certainly 
create a sensation there if these dishes were successfully 
produced, and would add much more credit to America 
than those hideous “American Bars” that one sees ad¬ 
vertised by glaring signs in all European capitals. 

I found Mrs. Bruce well read. She had been once to 


76 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

Europe, some thirty years ago, and it is surprising to 
find how well she remembers it; and it was particularly 
interesting to hear her describe places I know and realize 
the changes years have brought. She spoke of Christine 
Nilsson and of Liszt whom she had heard play. The 
difference between her mode of life then and now struck 
me. Some would have called her present manner of 
living in the neighborhood of poverty. The house, a 
one-storied cottage, would have been quite shabby if it 
had not been so clean and homelike. Flowers here and 
there, with several good pieces of furniture, helped to 
give it character. On the whole, one got an impression 
of refinement and gentle breeding, qualities which seem 
never to forsake some people, no matter to what depths of 
poverty they may sink. 

“Your education on the subject of the Confederacy,” 
Mrs. Bruce said towards the end of the meal, “might be¬ 
gin with your making the acquaintance of my dolls.” 
She looked at me with her charming smile. “Rose, will 
you get them when you go back to the sitting room ?” 

So her name is Rose. I’m sorry; I never liked flower 
names. They always seem so namby-pamby, so over¬ 
sweet, cloying, like thick chocolate. I looked across the 
table at her, disappointed, and realized that it did suit 
her in a way, at least better than any other flower name. 
Lily would be too pale, a Violet must have grey or blue 
eyes, Orchid is entirely too exotic. Yes, Rose fits her 
fairly well, with her nice skin, her full round neck and 
generous bosom. I think I should have preferred her 
being called Jonquil, as there are so many in bloom just 
now, but of course no one out of the Theatre Marigny 
could successfully carry off a name like that. Rose. I 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


77 


shut my eyes and tried to think what the name stands 
for in my imagination, for names are only a matter of 
association. Some men think Maud is the ugliest name 
in the world because they did not like a certain Maud; 
while others, who were well treated by the same-named 
ladies, think it the most beautiful name. I find Rose 
does not mean anything to me. I have never known a 
Rose. Of course the name calls up those horribly arti¬ 
ficial, forced flowers called American Beauty roses, but 
they don’t suggest her in the least. Ah, now I have it! 
In the garden of my uncle’s chateau, on the terrace that 
looked off towards the Pyrenees, there was a row of 
rose bushes which bloomed in the late autumn, after 
the others were withered and gone. They were not large 
roses, but they were exquisite in color, a blushing pink 
that grew deeper towards the centre. And later in the 
autumn, when a light frost had come, the edges of the 
petals were tinged a deeper pink and the dew on them 
sparkled like jewels. And their fragrance was far-off 
and timid, like their color. They were Duchesse roses. 
Why under heaven I should have thought of them in con¬ 
nection with her is beyond me! It sounds frightfully 
sentimental; and goodness knows I am not inclined that 
way, particularly towards this village girl who has never 
put her foot off the soil of Mississippi. 

We strolled back to the sitting room, I mean Rose and 
I; Mrs. Bruce and Colonel Morancey remained at the 
table over some unfinished subject. I was fidgety for a 
cigarette, being accustomed to smoke between courses, 
and shot a glance into the dining room to see if Colonel 
Morancey had lighted a cigar. In doing so, I had uncon¬ 
sciously pulled out my cigarette case. 


78 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“You want to smoke?” Rose said, noticing the case. 

“Yes—may I here?” 

“Mother doesn’t like it in the house. But you can go 
out on the front gallery.”—That is the name they 
use here for porch—“You can smoke while I get the 
dolls.” 

She led the way to the hall and opened the front door. 
The night was so balmy and springlike that I sat down on 
the steps and lighted a cigarette. What foolish, provin¬ 
cial customs, not to let men smoke in the house! I’m 
glad, though, I didn’t begin without asking; that would 
have placed me as once as a brute. 

She went back to get the dolls. How under the sun 
there could be any connection between dolls and this 
wretched war topic was beyond my wildest conjecture. 
I thought it was all on account of negroes; now it turns 
out to be a matter of dolls. 

“Have you finished your cigarette?” Rose had come 
back. 

“Yes, quite. I only take three puffs. After that it is 
not good.” 

“How funny! I thought the pleasure was in linger¬ 
ing over it.” 

“You speak as if you knew.” 

“Smoking? Oh, no!” She laughed softly, as lazily 
as she spoke. “I have tried it once or twice. It always 
makes me sick. It means a lot to men though, doesn’t 
it? I wish I did enjoy it!” 

“Why?” 

“Don’t you always want to be able to enjoy the things 
you see other people enjoying?” 

“No—I don’t think I do—always. I’ve seen a great 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 79 

many men derive pleasure from getting drunk. I never 
particularly envied them that capacity.’' 

“Of course not a horrid thing like that! I mean nice 
things.” 

“Like cigarette smoking? Perhaps. It is a great 
pleasure to me. In Paris I used to make my lunch off 
two apples and six cigarettes. You see—the cigarettes 
took the sharpness from my appetite and the apples 
helped fill up the void.” 

She sat down on the top step. 

“Do tell me about Paris. How long did you live 
there?” 

I lighted another cigarette and sat down beside her. 
It was a subject I was so full of and she listened so in¬ 
tently and asked so many questions which gave me 
chances to shine that I found myself telling her all of 
my twenty years’ experiences—at least the part that 
could be told. The Quartier Latin and atelier life 
seemed to have a special appeal for her. 

“Ever since I read ‘Trilby’ I’ve wanted to go there,” 
she said, her hands clasped across her knees. “It was 
so—so lovely.” 

Her frankness surprised me. A French girl would 
never have been allowed to read “Trilby” in the first 
place, and as for sitting out on a porch at night and talk¬ 
ing about it with a strange man, that would have ostra¬ 
cized her from good society or carried her posthaste to a 
convent. Pierre de Coulvain says that American girls 
are like innocent, married women, and I am beginning to 
believe she is correct. This makes me realize that I have 
never had any association with young, unmarried women, 
for the conventional chaperoned meetings with them in 


8 o 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


Europe cannot be called association. It may be a novel 
experience, if it doesn’t prove a bore. 

“What would you do there—in the Quartier Latin?” 

“Study music.” 

“You play very well. Where did you study?” 

“Mostly here—and a little in New Orleans.” 

“You must be fond of it.” 

“Of course. It keeps me happy. And then—then—it 
helps support my mother and me.” 

“You mean you give concerts?” 

“Goodness gracious—no!” She laughed. “I give 
music lessons. I have ten pupils.” 

“What an awful bore!” 

“It’s not so bad. One can make oneself like almost 
anything.” 

“The idea! Do you think I could possibly make my¬ 
self like this little village? Do you think I could drag 
out an existence of five years here? I have to, you 
know, to inherit my cousin’s property. Of course you’ll 
think I’m an awful cad for saying it but I’m talking to 
you very frankly. I don’t see how I’m going to do it. 
In fact, I’m not.” 

She did not reply at once and we sat silent a few mo¬ 
ments while I lit a third cigarette and drew at it viciously. 
The prospect struck me suddenly with renewed force, and 
I decided I would get the question settled once and for 
all with Colonel Morancey tomorrow. 

“I have lived here nineteen years,” she began again, 
looking up at the sky which was luminous without stars. 
“I think I have been happy—most of the time.” She 
ended with a wistful note in her voice that said plainly 
enough that she had not been happy half the time. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 81 


“You know that isn’t so!” I don’t know why I said 
this, and regretted it at once. 

She turned towards me, startled I suppose by my 
abruptness. 

“Why do you say that?” 

Like an idiot I answered, impelled probably by the 
necessity of taking my ill humor out on someone. 

“Your voice told me it wasn’t so. You know you 
want to get away from this stupidity and monotony— 
for it must be all that and more. You know you will 
never be happy until you get out into the world, till you 
go to Europe and hear the music that you must crave, 
till you see life actually lived—the great, throbbing, rush¬ 
ing life of cities—not as it is idled away in a place like 
this. You know you can’t be happy, really happy, with¬ 
out that; and you know it without having seen it! While 
I, who have known nothing else—well, you must see 
what an impossibility it is for me!” 

She stared at me all the time I was talking, her eyes 
wide open with astonishment at my impetuousness. 
When I had finished, she rose slowly, as if reluctantly, 
and stood looking down at me. 

“One can be happy here as well as any place in the 
world. It is not the place that makes happiness.” 

“Then what does ?” 

I think she smiled, though I’m not sure, her face was in 
shadow; and she let a full minute go by without answer¬ 
ing my question. “Now come in and let me show you 
the dolls.” 

I wonder what made her say that. “It is not the place 
that makes happiness.” I presume it is the old story of 
a girl falling in love and something turning up to inter- 


82 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


fere with consummation. It is remarkable how women 
have the knack of getting themselves into such predica¬ 
ments; possibly due to their mistaking renunciation for 
romance. Even Nannette, with all her worldliness, would 
luxuriate in the voluptuousness of sorrow. 

I followed her into the sitting room where she showed 
me four small dolls, all sitting in a row on the sofa and 
dressed in deep mourning with long widow’s veils of 
crepe. At first glance it took my breath. 

“What in the world!” I exclaimed. “They all look 
like widows!” 

She smiled at my surprise, though gently. 

“They are. Their husbands were killed in the War.” 
She picked up one at the end of the sofa, dressed in the 
fashion of hoop skirts and poke bonnets. “This is Mrs. 
Stonewall Jackson. She was the first widow of the 
War.” 

“No, no, not the first, Rose,” Mrs. Bruce’s voice came 
from the dining room. “There were many before Mrs. 
Jackson. She was just the first I dressed in mourning.” 

“I’m so glad,” I said to Rose. “I don’t believe you 
know any more about it than I do.” 

She colored a little and smiled. “Oh, yes I do, espe¬ 
cially about Mrs. Jackson, for Stonewall Jackson is my 
hero. You have a splendid picture of him in your 
parlor.” 

“He is more your hero than General Lee ?” 

She flashed a look of doubt at me. “Then you do 
know about the War. You were fooling us.” 

“I swear I wasn’t. But everyone has heard of Gen¬ 
eral Lee. Tell me why you admire General Jackson 
more.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 83 

She thought a moment, drawing her eyes together, a 
trick which gave her a brooding, far-off expression. 

“It is always a little difficult to explain one’s likes and 
dislikes. Our soldiers worshipped him and I have always 
heard such wonderful tales about him. You see he was 
a religious man, too; and they say, even in the midst of 
battle, on horseback, he would throw up his hands and 
implore God to let him win the fight. He had so much 
dash; I always picture him to myself on horseback, forg¬ 
ing ahead, dominating, irresistible, a very symbol of 
War.” 

Her eyes fairly shone as she talked, and watching her 
I wondered how much of this admiration was the result 
of tradition and how much it showed of her real char¬ 
acter. After all—it was probably only a young girl’s 
form of hero-worship. I’ve never met one yet who 
didn’t fall under the spell. She ended more quietly: 
“Perhaps it was the way he died that appeals to me 
most.” 

“Was it so glorious?” 

“Glorious? No—that’s just it; it was not glorious at 
all. He was shot by his own men.” 

“Traitors ?” 

“No—an accident. When they told General Lee, he 
said: ‘I have lost my right arm!’ ” 

“And General Lee—did he die in bed?” 

“You know all about them. I won’t tell you any 
more.” 

I insisted upon my ignorance; but she held to her be¬ 
lief and would say no more. I picked up the second doll. 

“Is this Mrs. Lee?” 

“No. Mother only dressed those in mourning who 


84 THAT LATE. UNPLEASANTNESS 


had husbands killed in the War, except Mrs. Jefferson 
Davis. That is she in the modern dress, you see. Mrs. 
Davis is my doll.” 

“And these other ladies?” 

“Friends of my grandmother.” 

I returned them to their places on the sofa and took a 
long look at them; then I repeated their names to be sure 
I had not forgotten them, and determined to begin read¬ 
ing about them tomorrow morning. It will give me a 
starting point to have met the wives of these gentlemen, 
even in effigy and I shall take a much more personal 
interest in them. 

Mrs. Bruce and Colonel Morancey soon joined us, 
and a little later he and I took our leave. Rose accom¬ 
panied us to the door, and after I had bade her good¬ 
night and had gone on to the porch, I glanced back and 
saw Morancey holding her hand and looking down at her 
in quite a love-sick manner. Her face was turned away 
from him and for a bare second I caught an expression 
of intense pain in her eyes. Then he came out and the 
door closed behind us. 

He left me at the gate and I walked up to the house 
slowly, puzzling over the meaning of the expression in 
her eyes. Is the old fellow in love with her and she 
doesn’t like it? Or—? But of course I can’t make 
anything out of it. Yet it has made me recall her words 
about happiness, and the sadness in her voice, and the 
look in her eyes which is often too brooding for so 
young a girl; though at twenty we are inclined to imagine 
all sorts of difficulties which at thirty we try to forget. 
She is probably tired of teaching music and was thinking 
of those lessons on the morrow—quite enough to make 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 85 

anyone look sad. . . . I’m very glad I went to the supper. 
It was amusing in a way, and a real pleasure to talk to 
Mrs. Bruce. I felt as if I had been talking to a grande 
dame of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. . . . Again I am 
hearing that incessant patter of feet. Perkins evidently 
forgot to tell the servants it disturbed me. If it should 
be Sapphira, trying to walk her sins away, I shall tell her 
tomorrow that she is forgiven, if it will aid her in sleep¬ 
ing and letting me sleep. . . . And now, the ancestral 
couch calls me. I have a presentiment that I shall dream 
tonight of four ladies in deep mourning gazing at a 
man on horseback. 


CHAPTER V 


April 13- 

Once more I was awakened by music, though of a very 
different quality from that of the previous morning. 
This time it was singing in a high, raucous voice accom¬ 
panied by a noise that resembled someone beating vio¬ 
lently on wood. My first idea was that it was my neigh¬ 
bor giving a music lesson and beating time on the side 
of the house with a spade—there are some students of 
music that demand such strenuous direction. But the 
words were surely not of her teaching. As well as I 
could make them out they ran:— 

“Is ma name wrote dar, 

On de page dat is so far—” 

It took no vivid imagination to picture the singer 
standing on tip-toe to gain carrying power, every muscle 
brought into play and vocal chords stretched to splitting 
point. 

I sprang out of bed and rushed in the direction of 
the sound, which came from beyond the dining room, and 
finally stopped at an open window that gave on the back 
yard. There, in front of Sapphira’s room on the brick 
pavement, before a wooden tub in which she was wash¬ 
ing linen, stood the biggest, blackest negro woman I ever 
hope to see. Her skirts were tucked up, her arms bare, 
and her head tied up in a red bandanna handkerchief. 

86 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 87 

While she rubbed the linen up and down the washboard 
with a violence that suggested rags as the result, she 
sang with a violence that was alarming. She must have 
come direct from the jungles without changing cars. 

I turned from the window and yelled for Sapphira. 
How she heard me above the din is a marvel, unless her 
bad conscience and her night promenades have sharpened 
her hearing. 

“Who is that creature?” I demanded when she ap¬ 
peared, actually trying to look timid about seeing me 
in pyjamas. 

“Dat, seh—oh, dat’s Calla Lily.” 

“What is she doing here?” 

“She’s de washerwoman, seh. She comes once a week. 
Ole Missus—” 

“Tell her to stop that infernal noise or leave the place 
at once!” 

I got back to bed and was just dozing off again when 
the beating sound began with renewed vigor. This was 
really too much and I rose again with a wrath bent upon 
gratification. I made directly for the kitchen this time 
and surprised Sapphira in the act of raising a wooden 
club over her shoulder preparatory to letting it fall on the 
table with the crashing sound I had heard. I must con¬ 
fess a shiver of apprehension went zigzagging down my 
spinal column at the sight of her determined expression 
and the club. Whether she was doing a daily dozen or 
bent upon demolishing the household, including me, I 
could not decide. When my courage did return, I spoke 
to her in a voice much milder than before. 

“What are you doing, Sapphira?” 

“Pse making beaten biscuit for you, seh.” 


88 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“And you expect me, or anyone in town, to sleep while 
you are making such a confounded clatter ?” 

“Lawdy, seh, do hit ’sturb you?” This put with the 
innocence of a babe. “I’ll stop, seh, in a minute. I’se 
jest got ten more licks to gib dis heah dough an’ I’ll be 
done.” 

“Ten more! How many are necessary ?” 

“Hundred, seh; an’ I nebber misses a one.” She 
ended with a broad, proud grin and let the poised club 
fall with a thud that made my teeth chatter. 

I turned away helplessly, and once more back in my 
room found it was just half-past six. For the sake of 
the beaten biscuits and clean linen I had to lose two and 
a half hours of the best sleep, for say what health seekers 
may of early rising, I find morning sleep the most in¬ 
vigorating. Any further rest was out of the question. 
There was nothing left to do but bathe and dress, after 
which I decided to take a walk so as not to interfere 
with the regime I had so carefully cautioned Ananias in 
regard to;—that of never serving my coffee until nine 
o’clock. 

My street, I call it that not knowing yet what name it 
goes by, was charming in the early morning The sun¬ 
light filtered down through the branches of trees in 
splotches of gold, the lawns were greener than yesterday, 
and everything had a spick-and-span look due to the 
freshness of the hour. I strolled along, drinking in the 
balmy air which is much like that of the Riviera in 
January. There was a delightful fragrance, too; that 
spicy clean odor of spring. I had turned in the direction 
that led away from the town and was not long in coming 
to the end of the street—it was only a matter of six 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 89 

blocks or so—where the suburbs degenerated into a con¬ 
glomerate settlement of cabins and hovels, all of them 
dilapidated and ready to fall to pieces. Each seemed to 
be inhabited by a family of negroes, some of whom were 
occupied as Calla Lily was, over a wash tub, though the 
majority appeared to have an infinite amount of leisure at 
their disposal. In a way it recalled to me the outskirts of 
Italian towns, except that it lacked the picturesqueness of 
such places, and of course the peasants here are all black. 
I idled along, curious to note this new type of surround¬ 
ings, and came at last into a country road and to the foot 
of a hill on top of which a house caught my attention. 
It was a really nice bit of architecture with an excep¬ 
tionally good door, classic in design with fluted columns 
on each side and a fanlight above. Directly over the 
door, set in the roof which extended over and formed 
the ceiling of the porch, was a dormer window of perfect 
proportions. The house had once been painted white 
with dark green blinds at the windows; now everything 
about it suggested years of neglect. In the garden be¬ 
hind a once beautiful picket fence was an old pine tree, 
stripped by age of most of its branches, and on either 
side of the porch steps were two large box trees, long 
ago given over to their natural tendencies in regard to 
figure. The entire conception of the house was sym¬ 
metrical and formal, an effect that always gives me pleas¬ 
ure. After I had climbed the hill and stood gazing at it, 
the front door opened and who should come out but Mrs. 
Peyton—alias “Miss Josie.” 

She spied me at once and came down the walk, shad¬ 
ing her eyes to make sure that it was I. I took off my 
hat and bowed; I was on the opposite side of the road. 


90 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“How is General Butler’s friend this morning ?” she 
leaned on the fence and called to me. 

“Now—that isn’t fair of you,” I replied, crossing the 
road to her gate. “Not when you know I have a 
picture of Stonewall Jackson hanging in my drawing 
room.” 

“Indeed! Have you? Who told you so?” This in 
a bantering voice, as if she were talking to a child, her 
little eyes sparkling all the while. 

“I’ve learned heaps since I saw you. I’ve got so far 
as to know what General Jackson said when they 
brought him the news of General Lee’s death.” 

“What did he say?” 

I repeated what I thought Rose had told me. 

“For the land’s sake, who’ve you been talking to?”’ she 
exclaimed. “You’ve got it all twisted. That’s what Lee 
said about Jackson. But you’re on the right track and 
it shows a good spirit. Who told you?” 

“Miss Bruce. I dined with them last night.” 

“Dined?” 

“I beg your pardon—teaed.” 

“I was just wondering if they were putting on more 
airs. I can’t stand for folks holding their heads too 
high in the air. That’s Nellie Bruce’s great trouble. 
She’s stuck up.” 

“Really! I found her charming.” 

“Of course you did. All men do. She knows how to 
cuddle you. What’d you think of Rose?” 

“Quite a nice girl.” 

“She’s deserving, I’ll say that much for her; teaches 
music—stuck up, too, mighty stuck up. Won’t go into 
society because she can’t dress like other girls. Nothing 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


9i 

but foolishness, for she has a lot more back of her than 
fine clothes.” 

So I have found out the cause of her unhappiness. It 
is her poverty and her longing for the things all girls 
crave. 

“Then they are poor,” I added, tentatively. 

“Poor! Well—I reckon! Poor as church mice. And 
they used to have bushels of money, at least Nellie did; 
plantations, niggers, everything. It was a terrible come 
down to Nellie to lose it and she can’t forget it.” 

“It must have been a shock,” I put it sympathetically. 
“Was it bad management or extravagance?” 

“Extravagance!” She raised her voice perceptibly. 
“You Yankees stole it all from her. You ruined her 
plantations, you burnt her home, you freed her niggers—” 

“Please,” I interrupted. “Why put it all on my shoul¬ 
ders?” 

“Well—aren’t you from Massachusetts ?” 

“Yes—but—” 

“There ain’t any but. You just did it.” 

I took off my hat and mopped my brow, never having 
been accused, all in a breath, of so many dastardly 
crimes. 

“You make me almost wish I hadn’t been born in 
Massachusetts,” I finally got out. 

“H-m-m,” she demurred, with her head a little to one 
side and viewing me appraisingly. “I’m inclined to be¬ 
lieve that’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard you say.” 
Her candor is more than refreshing, it is stimulating; she 
seems continually to dare me on. “So you took supper 
with the Bruces. Was old Morancey there?” 

“Yes.” 


92 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


Again I caught that appraising look. 

“In Massachusetts—” her accent of contempt when she 
pronounced the word was inimitable—“I suppose it is 
considered good manners for young men to say ‘yes’ and 
‘no’ to old ladies.” 

“What else could I say?” 

“Southern men say ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am.’ At 
least they did in my day. Lord knows what they say 
now; they’re all so spoiled with new-fangled notions.” 

“If you want me to say ‘ma’am’ to you, it will give me 
great pleasure. I believe the English still address their 
Queen that way.” 

“And southern gentlemen consider their women 
queens,” she retorted. 

I bowed, acknowledging my defeat; and she smiled, 
relenting with a look in her old eyes that was actually 
gentle. I can’t help liking her, and her manner of treat¬ 
ing me as if I were a worm under her feet—though a 
rather good sort of worm—is diverting. I wonder if 
some day she won’t insult me; and I have half a notion 
she is wondering, too, how far she can go. Yet, she has 
moments of softness that one feels rather than sees or 
hears; then one forgives her everything. And of course 
she is a gossip, and all discerning people love a gossip. 

“Young man, I like you—in spite of your ancestors— 
and I’ve half a mind to ask you to take breakfast 
with me.” 

“I wish you would, ma’am.” 

She gave me a quick smile of appreciation and swung 
the gate open. I entered and followed her into the 
house. The hall was empty except for a few rickety 
chairs; the living room into which she conducted me was 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


93 


also meagrely furnished. There were no curtains or 
shades to the windows, and the carpet was full of ragged 
spots; a kerosene lamp with a fluted paper shade decor¬ 
ated a cracked marble-topped table on which was a cloth 
of a hideous printed design. It was a dreary room, de¬ 
void of any of the niceties, even the comforts, of life, 
and voiced dire poverty, which surprised me. I had not 
guessed she was so destitute. She left me here and a mo¬ 
ment later I heard her voice ordering someone to 
“scramble some eggs and fry a little middling,” explain¬ 
ing that there was company for breakfast. Then she 
came back and told me that the view from the window 
through which I was looking was the bane of her ex¬ 
istence, as it looked down on “nigger town.” 

We sat down, I in an old, out-at-the-elbows, horse¬ 
hair chair; she in one of rickety willow. She sat in a 
prim way, upright, her back scorning the back of the 
chair. Her quaint white bodice, with its ruffle around 
the waist, made her look as if she had come back from 
some long forgotten period. Her hair was combed back 
tight, and spectacles sat shamelessly towards the front. 
I must say I liked her appearance more the first day. 

“This is your home?” I asked when we were seated. 

“It is where I live. I rent it. I have no home.” 

As she said this, with an admission in her eyes that 
her pride could not hide, I think I felt more sympathy 
for her than for anyone I have seen for a long time. 
Somehow, the idea of her living there alone in her old 
age, with the memories of a much better time, appeared 
to me pitiful. It is different when I see beggars on the 
street. I don’t know what their homes are like, I don t 
think of such a thing in connection with them; but to sit 


94 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


there with her in the midst of her poverty struck me 
keenly. 

“It's good enough for me,” she went on. “There’s 
no one but myself.” 

“You have no relatives?” 

“Not a living soul.” This with a decided air of relief. 
“I’m glad of it. If I had any and they had money, 
they’d be ashamed to see me living this way and wouldn’t 
help me change it; and if they didn’t have money, they’d 
want to live with me. You know what kinfolks are 
like!” 

“I haven’t any, either.” 

For a little while she was silent, then: “So old Mo- 
rancey was there. H-m-m. How d’you like him ?” She 
looked at me sharply as she put the question. 

“I—I have only met him. He has been most kind 
to me.” 

“So you don’t like him.” 

“I did not say that.” 

“When you ask a man if he likes someone and he 
avoids saying ‘yes,’ you can put it down that he doesn’t 
like him.” 

“I don’t agree with you at all. You see—” 

“My dear young man, don’t waste your time trying to 
fool me. I haven’t lived to be seventy-three for nothing.” 

“But if you make an assertion like that it will be most 
embarrassing for me. I’m under many obligations to 
him.” 

“Enough to make you feel that you can sincerely con¬ 
gratulate him on his approaching marriage ?” 

“Marriage—at his age!” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


95 


“Why not?—he’s only seventy. That’s the age they 
want to get married—especially to young girls.” 

I wonder if there is a living soul here under seventy! 

“He hasn’t told me about it. Who is the bride ?” 

“Rose Bruce.” 

Just then a negro woman announced breakfast and we 
went across the hall to an even more meagrely furnished 
room. A variety of thoughts went racing through my 
head at that moment; the memory of the girl’s face the 
night before when Morancey was bidding her good-night, 
her wistfulness that showed at times, the various expres¬ 
sions she had made use of during the evening. For the 
moment I could not reconcile myself to the idea of her 
marrying Morancey, not that it is not entirely suitable— 
except for his age—now that I think of it at leisure and 
realize that it is probably the best she could do in the way 
of an alliance; indeed, I suppose he is quite a parti for 
a village girl who has to teach music for a livelihood. 
It was my surprise at hearing it that made me think it 
unsuitable. 

“You are not eating,” Miss Josie snapped. 

“I only take coffee and bread in the morning.” 

She looked at me searchingly. “You mean that?—or 
isn’t it good—” 

“I beg of you—” 

“Well—about Rose and Morancey—I think it’s a burn¬ 
ing shame. What Nellie Bruce is thinking about, I 
don’t know. It’s scandalous! He’s old enough to be 
the child’s grandfather! She can’t love him!” 

“She can respect him—probably.” 

“Fiddlesticks! I don’t know what the world’s coming 


96 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

to. In my day people married for love, the old-fashioned, 
real hard love; now—it’s all money or position or some 
foolishness without any sentiment in it.” 

‘‘One must be practical.” 

“Practical—the mischief! If you take the sentiment 
away from marriage it becomes nothing but an arrange¬ 
ment for—for producing children.” 

“Yet the modern marriage does not do that, either.” 

“That’s true, too. Have you been in love?” 

The directness of the question took my breath. I 
think I blushed—as people will do sometimes for no 
earthly reason—and in my embarrassment went so far 
as to help myself to some scrambled eggs. 

“I thought you only took coffee.” 

“These eggs look so delicious—” 

“So you have been in love.” 

“Never! I’m what you’d call heart-whole and fancy- 
free.” 

She meditated this for a moment or two and then made 
an even more astounding statement. 

“I’ve just been thinking it might be nice for you to 
marry Rose.” 

“Great heavens! Are you a matchmaker, too—with 
all your other accomplishments!” 

“No; but I’d do most anything to cut old Morancey 
out. I hate him, and I have to be nice to him because 
he’s helping me with my Veterans’ Home.” 

“Why do you hate him?” 

“Because he ingratiated himself with the ‘carpet¬ 
baggers’ when the War was over, and got started making 
his money that way; and he has made more than anybody 
else round here. What d’you think of Rose?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


97 


Her violent change of subject made me almost dizzy. 

“She is a nice girl. A village type of course—but 
really quite nice.” 

“Nice! I hate that word. Let me tell you about her 
family.” 

She pushed her chair back from the table and launched 
forth on the history of the Bruces, who, it appears, are 
one of the oldest families in the South. The original 
Bruce had come to Mississippi from Virginia in the latter 
part of the eighteenth century; here he became a leading 
force in driving the Indian from his native soil; in abet¬ 
ting the purchase of the Louisiana territory, and numer¬ 
ous other patriotic undertakings which left him wealthy 
—as such proceedings often do. His son had succeeded 
even more notably, from a financial standpoint, so that 
the third son had been considered the largest owner of 
plantations and slaves at the outbreak of the Civil War. 
Mr. Bruce distinguished himself in the Confederacy by 
being promptly and so successfully wounded in the first 
battle of Bull Run—there appear to have been two at the 
same place—that he was sent home a wreck. He had 
lived on however; and such was the lasting charm of this 
distinguished family that he was able, thirty years later, 
to marry one of the beauties of the post-bellum period 
and incidentally beget a daughter—a daughter, though, 
that was somewhat unusual in that she made her appear¬ 
ance when her mother was forty—“an old folks’ child,” 
as described by Miss Josie. What I have stated may not 
be absolutely accurate as it was told me in a breathless 
rush of words that kept me on my mettle to follow the 
narrative. From it all I gather that the name Bruce is 
not local in its prominence, but is respected, even vener- 


98 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

ated, throughout the South. In fact, after hearing it 
from Miss Josie, I am convinced that to have Bruce blood 
is much more desirable than to have an incontestable crest 
which has been handed down to one from Tudors or 
Bourbons or Romanoffs. It may be deduced also from 
the above that gossiping with a neighbor’s cook is not 
lese majeste for a Bruce—it is a mere idiosyncrasy which 
the possession of such blood allows one to gratify. 

I was duly impressed and silenced. 

“So—call Rose a village type, if you’ve a mind to,” 
Miss Josie ended with a snap of the lips; “but don’t for¬ 
get that there’s not a girl in Cottonville—or anywhere 
else, for that matter—whether she has any more dresses 
or not—who can hold a candle to her as far as blood 
goes.” 

“This is a matter of great enlightenment to me,” I 
said. “And I am very glad to hear it. From what I’ve 
heard of America and the foreign understanding of the 
question, I have been led to believe that American aristoc¬ 
racy was a matter of wealth.” 

“In New York and Chicago anything is possible,” 
Miss Josie answered promptly. “Even in Atlanta and 
New Orleans, I hear, family traditions are dying out. 
In smaller towns, thank heaven, we still have some pride 
of race left—I mean southern towns.” 

“How do you account for that?” 

“By our isolation. Outsiders haven’t bothered us yet. 
But they’re coming.” 

“What will be the result?” 

“God be praised! I shall not live to see it!” 

When I rose to leave, our conversation had degener¬ 
ated into a discussion of the Veterans’ Home. This is 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 99 

her raison de vivre and I could not escape from a promise 
to visit with her the almost completed building. She has 
even gone so far as to place me on the reception com¬ 
mittee for the formal opening of the home, explaining 
that it would give me .a certain prominence with the 
townspeople. I must begin to “cram” on this war ques¬ 
tion, even if I remain here only a month. 

Passing the Bruce house I saw Rose coming out and 
waited to speak to her, smiling to myself for doing it. 
Is it that Miss Josie’s recital of family prestige has im¬ 
pressed me and I am at heart a snob ? There’s no telling. 

She carried a roll of music in her hand and wore a 
simple little blue serge suit that looked as if it had been 
made at home. Her face, under a flat brimmed hat, 
looked particularly young and girlish. 

“Have your ears been burning this morning?” I 
greeted her, rather flippantly. 

She put her hand to an ear and felt it. 

“Are they so red?” she smiled, avoiding my im¬ 
plication. 

“They should be. I’ve heard all about you in the last 
hour.” 

Her brows drew together in a slight pucker; then 
she blushed ever so lightly. 

“People gossip so. Don’t believe all you hear.” 

“I don’t mean that,” I added hastily, at which she 
blushed crimson. “I have been hearing about your an¬ 
cestors. I feel that I should click my heels and bow 
most profoundly when I meet you.” 

She did not laugh as I had expected; in fact she 
became a little pale and her head went up perceptibly. 

“I beg your pardon.” Then very stiffly, “Good morn- 


ioo THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


mg.” Before I knew what she meant she had left me and 
hurried across the street. 

Of all the stupid interpretations to put on my innocent 
remark! I meant only to be friendly with a touch of 
fun and she translated it into sarcasm; at least that is 
what I take it to be from her actions. If I only had 
sense enough to realize that these people are all a lot of 
cave dwellers with no appreciation of humor, and that 
the only way to treat them is with a cold reserve and a 
certain toppiness that will make them feel their pro¬ 
vincialism, I would save myself much annoyance. It 
was stupid of her, and so like a village girl to suspect 
the wrong thing. Probably if I had told her that I had 
been informed that morning of her distinguished an¬ 
cestors and that I found her beautiful face more worthy 
of homage than any line of progenitors, she would have 
fallen on my neck with gratitude. That is the sort of 
twaddle village girls like and expect, nay, even demand. 
However, she’ll not get it from me. With her mother 
and Morancey and even Miss Josie looking on her as a 
veritable pot of honey, she has lost the little charm she 
might have had. 

I shall go to see Morancey at once. I see no reason 
in the world for stopping a month here. As I am deter¬ 
mined to go, why wait ? 


CHAPTER VI 


April 13- 

I had my first view of the business quarter of the 
town this morning on my way to Colonel Morancey’s 
office. Going for several blocks along my street, pass¬ 
ing on the way some residences of hideous modern 
architecture with well groomed lawns, some old houses 
delightful in their neglected, early Georgian style, and 
two churches, I turned as I had been directed to the 
right and found myself in a street that led down a long 
descent to the river. It was a striking view, and the 
river, in the distance, crawling through what I under¬ 
stand is the Delta, was a revelation to me. From my 
street I never imagined there was such a magnificent 
view so near. 

I found Colonel Morancey’s office in a modern build¬ 
ing, the “skyscraper” of the town, I suppose, as it has 
five stories and is situated on the shopping street. 
Though built up of three-storied iron front “stores” and 
paved and boasting an electric tram line, this street still 
has a decidedly village aspect. People stand on the cor¬ 
ners and carry on long leisurely conversations; chemist 
shops with gorgeous soda fountains appear to take the 
place of clubs; wagons and carriages stop indefinitely in 
front of shops, while before a dry goods establishment 
I saw a woman sitting in a flivver, selecting a dress which 
a salesman was displaying to her. That struck me as a 
101 


102 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


delightful way to shop. Fancy driving down the Rue 
de la Paix and sending up word to Monsieur Paquin or 
the wonderful Poiret, to fetch down his mannequins for 
your approval! In front of another shop I saw a farmer 
loading his wagon with kegs of nails and plows. All 
business appears to be carried on from the front door; 
it reminds me of those palaces in Rome where everything, 
from the Principessa to the ash man with his sack on his 
back, passes through the same entrance. 

Colonel Morancey received me with his grand-eloquent 
cordiality. His rooms are plain and businesslike, fur¬ 
nished with what I have seen advertised in French papers 
as “American Office Furniture,” which means roll-top 
desks, revolving chairs, patent book cases in which you 
put one section on top of another as your library or 
taste for reading expands:—all of it made of frightful, 
highly varnished wood called “golden oak.” The walls 
were a vivid green, just exactly the wrong shade, on 
which hung an uninteresting lot of steel engravings, and 
one large portrait which was draped with a tattered flag. 
I was struck by this picture as I took my seat, and rose 
again to look at it. The man is standing on a slight 
elevation, men are fighting about him on all sides, a 
cannon is belching in the background, there is a horrible 
din and roar—at least there must have been—and 
through it all he is standing like a rock, one hand raised 
to shade his eyes which are staring straight out across the 
turbulence. The expression of his eyes was what had 
caught my attention. The painter had been particularly 
successful in giving them wonderful intensity and fire, 
and still there was a depth of sorrow and much gentle- 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 103 

ness in them. One got the idea that he was a man not 
hungry for war, yet was a magnificent general. 

“Who is that?” I asked Colonel Morancey. 

For a second his urbanity was lost in surprise; but 
he was quick to recover himself. 

“That is General Robert E. Lee.” 

“He was considered a very fine soldier, wasn’t he? 
The reason I ask is that I know so little about the War,” 
I went on hurriedly. “And I remember once meeting a 
Russian who told me America had produced a man who 
knew the technique of war better than Napoleon, and that 
his name was Lee.” 

The old fellow’s face took on a different expression 
from any I had ever seen. In the glow of enthusiasm 
I felt that I liked him; evidently it was his pet subject, 
too. In the dissertation that followed, my historical 
education progressed with bounds. 

“Then you will not object to advancing the money to 
Miss Josie’s Veterans’ Home—if all this means so much 
to you?” I finally put in, to get him on a subject I wanted 
to discuss. 

“Certainly not. I shall do whatever you say in the 
matter.” 

“But the result—in the end, I mean—if I throw up 
the whole thing; how will you account for having ad¬ 
vanced me the money?” 

“I have thought of that. The only money that you 
can touch now is the cash in the bank which, as I wrote 
you, amounts to one hundred thousand dollars. The 
will states that the entire estate, including that amount, 
shall go to charities and the Confederate Home at 


104 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


Beauvior, if you refuse the conditions. In the mean¬ 
time, while you are making up your mind, the cash ac¬ 
count will have to be drawn on.” 

“After I leave will not that be considered a debt on my 
part; I mean the part I spend?” 

“Certainly. You will have to refund that.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

He raised his hands a little, his eyebrows more. 

“I couldn’t make a hundred thousand dollars in that 
many years,” I confessed frankly. 

“You will hardly spend that much before you know 
what you are going to do, will you?” There was a 
shade of alarm in the question. 

“I suppose not; though I’ve already spent the amount 
you sent me in Paris. That went for a dinner d la 
Grecque and some clothes.” 

“Then you need money now?” 

I nodded. He rang a bell, and a negro boy entered, 
who was instructed, in a most informal way, to go to 
the bank and get a cheque book for me, the information 
added, as an afterthought, that he, the Colonel, would 
see them about it during the day. Then he spoke of the 
will being recorded, and a lot of legal details, to which I 
listened like a lamb, never having had the slightest in¬ 
terest or head for business. The outcome, though, was 
eminently satisfactory in one way, for at the end of an 
hour or more, after a lawyer had been called in for con¬ 
sultation, I found myself in possession of a bank book 
that showed a balance of over a hundred thousand dol¬ 
lars, and better still than that, a cheque book. 

“I came here this morning to tell you I couldn’t stick 
it out. I was fully determined to clear out in a day or 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 105 

two. Now—you’ve fettered me. It is just like giving 
a starving man a plate of poisoned food. If I spend all 
this money, and I’m just as likely to do it as not, it will 
be necessary to remain here five years.” 

“Then I hope you will spend it all at once,” he an¬ 
swered, with too evident a wish to be flattering. 

“Thank you; that’s all very well. But do I want to be 
tied hand and foot?” 

“We all are—in one way or another.” 

I made a supreme effort and threw the cheque book 
on the table. “I won’t run the risk, Colonel Morancey! 
I know I’m not going to stay!” 

To my surprise he took no notice of this remark, 
fumbling all the time with some papers on his desk, his 
back to me. Then he turned towards me with a mem¬ 
orandum in his hand. 

“In regard to the servants’ bequests (Ananias and 
Sapphira were each to be given a thousand dollars), don’t 
you think you had better give that to them at once ? Do 
it by cheque and I’ll have receipts made out for them to 
sign. 

“You didn’t hear what I said, Colonel Morancey.” 

“Oh, yes, I did, but you’ve already given me your word 
to stay a month.” 

The interview ended with my putting the cheque book 
in my pocket and taking my leave rather shamefacedly. 
So here I am in that historical Damocles situation, except 
that the sword in this case is a cheque book. What am 
I going to do? I have spent already several thousand 
dollars and the immediate prospect is for a growing debt. 
It is most annoying. I wish I could take a sleeping 
powder and doze through the five years; though that is 


io6 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


what I shall actually do if I remain in this wretched 
place. 

I got back home rather peevish and excited. Perkins 
was in the hall assisting Sapphira to remove the last 
souvenirs of the funeral. At sight of me, she dis¬ 
appeared through a trap door or something equally con¬ 
venient. I suppose she thinks I am still harboring re¬ 
sentment—which I am. 

The drawing-room looked very nice. The windows 
were wide open, there are four immense ones in the 
room, the two in the front opening down to the veranda. 
The carpet and furniture looked well cleaned. I saw no 
coffin prints; and on the white marble mantel, between two 
Bohemian vases filled with pampas grass, was a bowl of 
fragrant jonquils. The furniture is massive carved 
rosewood, upholstered in black horsehair; between the 
front windows is a spinet; in two corners are etageres, 
hideous in their pyramidal form and covered with more 
hideous bric-a-brac, vases, porcelain flowers, hand- 
painted plaques and heaps of bisque cupids lying and 
sitting in disgraceful postures. There are two tall mir¬ 
rors on either side of the mantel that run up to the 
ceiling in heavy gilt frames. The chandelier is a heavy 
thing of a bronze color with fluted glass shades over gas 
jets. The general effect recalled slightly some drawing¬ 
rooms I have seen in France. For pictures, there are 
four steel engravings, evidently portraits of General 
Lee’s colleagues, for he was one of the four. I recog¬ 
nized him because he was on horseback. The other 
two were unknown to me, the names on the margin 
being Albert Sidney Johnson and John Beauregard. 
There were two colored prints entitled “The Fall 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 107 

of Fort Sumter” and “The Seige of Vicksburg.” 

Perkins awaited me in the hall. 

“If I have your permission, sir, I’ll go for a little 
walk.” 

“By all means,” I assented, for he is looking a little 
dreary; longing for the Boulevards, I’m sure. “By the 
way, Perkins, you may as well make yourself satisfied 
here. We are in for a month of it at least.” 

I saw the corners of his inexpressive mouth droop. 

“Do you find it very quiet?” 

“A little sad, sir; but you see, sir, I never did like 
village life.” 

Colonel Morancey sent me two papers this afternoon 
to be signed by Ananias and Sapphira—receipts for their 
share of my cousin’s estate. I told Ananias to bring his 
questionable spouse to the library immediately after sup¬ 
per, and they both accordingly appeared, evidently much 
disturbed and expecting to receive their dismissal, as I 
discovered later. I sat down while they ranged them¬ 
selves before me, side by side, the lamp light bringing 
out their features with a distinctness I had not before ob¬ 
served. His face has something quite distinguished 
about it; his eyes are large with protruding lids, his nose 
is prominent, slightly aquiline, with open, fearless nos¬ 
trils, his grizzly moustache and hair lend dignity, and 
though he stoops with age his bearing is rather impres¬ 
sive. I think he is pure African and perhaps of royal 
descent, for there is nothing of the slave in his manner, 
which makes you respect him through his respect for 
you. Nor is there anything brutally negro in any of 
his features. 


io8 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I cannot say so much for Sapphira. She is not so 
black as he, which shows a mixture of races, and her 
nose is broad and flat, her lips are enormous, and her 
ears stand straight out on either side of her perfectly 
round face. Her hair is jet black, by art, I suspect, and 
kinky, and parted in many divisions. I mean there is 
part in the centre and smaller parts radiating to the sides 
where other parts form the whole coiffure into squares. 
The effect is something like a mountain side in France, 
cultivated in separate though adjoining squares of 
vegetation. In spite of these drawbacks, she has a 
pleasant expression, a luxurious, oriental softness which 
makes out of her glance a caress. It is almost embarras¬ 
sing. Her ancestors, I’m sure, were jungle courtesans, 
one trait of which is shown in her choice of colors, in¬ 
variably intense purples and reds and greens. 

“My cousin, Miss Claiborne,” I began, noticing their 
discomfiture and expectant countenances, “it appears, 
valued your services greatly—” 

Sapphira threw her apron over her head and moaned 
aloud. 

“I knowed hit! I knowed hit! Yo’ doesn’t want to 
keep us!” 

“Have I said anything that you might interpret that 
way?” 

“I knowed hit sence de mornin’ yo’ cotched me a-talkin 
to Miss Rosie. But I’se knowed Miss Rosie eber sence 
she wuz a leetle baby an’ I wuz jest a-sayin’ all dat to 
make her laugh. She alius done come ober in de mornin’s 
to say goodmornin’ to me an’ ole Miss. She’s done hit all 
her life—an’ I talks to her lak she wuz a baby. Please, 
seh, don’t yo’ hole dat up ’ginst me an’ Nias. We ain’t 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 109 

knowed no udder house all our lives cep dis,—an’ we 
wouldn’t know whar to go.” 

All this came through the apron punctuated with sobs. 

“When you are finished,” I said, “I shall continue.” 

Ananias had remained silent during this outburst, calm 
and dignified; and ashamed, I verily believe, of his wife’s 
lack of pride. 

“Don’t take no notice ob her, seh. We ain’t gwine 
to gib yo’ no trouble ’bout gettin’ rid ob us. Yo’ jes 
say when yo’ wants us to go an’ we’ll slip out quiet-lak. 
Yo’ won’t be bothered a bit.” 

Brave old fellow! I felt like getting up and giving 
him my hand. I knew he was of royal birth. 

“If you will control your wife, I shall continue.” 

He turned and jerked the apron, from her face. 

“Gawd-a-mighty, nigger! Shut up an’ listen to de 
gem’man.” 

Sapphira sniffled and used the corner of her apron. 

“As I was saying, my cousin, appreciating your faith¬ 
ful service, has left each one of you one thousand 
dollars.” 

The announcement was received in silence with ab¬ 
solutely expressionless countenances. I repeated it with 
the same result; there were no comments, facial or vocal. 
Then I produced the cheques and the receipts. 

“Both of you must sign your names on these slips of 
paper so that Colonel Morancey will know that you have 
received the money.” 

At this they stared at each other; and Sapphira hung 
her head and sniggered. 

“Lawdy, seh, we doesn’t know how to write, neider 
Nias or me.” 


no THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Then how can I get the receipts signed?” I exclaimed 
vexedly. 

“Dat’s easy, seh,” Ananias explained. “Yo’ signs for 
us an’ we makes a cross to show yo’ done hit for us.” 

“That will not be legal.” 

“Hit alius has been, seh.” 

“You mean it has been done before?” 

“Sho, seh.” 

I debated and then decided to accept this method, sub¬ 
ject to Colonel Morancey’s approval, and began writing 
out the cheques. 

“What is your full name ?” to Ananias. 

“Nias Washington Jefferson Davis Claiborne, seh.” 

“And yours?” to Sapphira. 

“Saffy Wheeler Johnson.” 

“Claiborne?” I added. 

“No, seh. Jes Saffy Wheeler Johnson.” 

“If you are the wife of Ananias, you must have the 
same name.” 

“Shucks, we ain’t neber bothered ’bout dat, seh.” 

I instructed them to make the cross marks they were 
accustomed to and handed them the cheques. Sapphira 
looked at hers and handed it back to me with a grin. 

“Lawdy, seh, I ain’t got no use for hit. Yo’ jes keep 
hit for me. When I wants to show hit to niggers I’ll 
come in an’ borrow hit from yo’.” 

“But it’s yours. You ought to do something with it. 
Spend it—or give it to your children, if you have any.” 

“Yas, seh, I has chilluns, plenty of dem. Dey’s all on 
de plantation. But dey’s all sich low-down niggers I 
ain’t gwine to gib dem nothin’.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


hi 


I turned to Ananias. He was also regarding his 
cheque skeptically. 

“Dis, seh, is more’n I needs jes now. Would yo’ 
mind, seh, makin’ hit to read three hundred dollars ’stid 
ob a thousand.” 

I was glad to find someone who could use a little 
money, and made out another cheque for three hundred 
dollars. 

“The rest,” I said, “I shall put in the bank for you 
and you can have it whenever you wish.” 

“I’se powerful much obleeged, seh. Hit sho wuz good 
ob Miss Neppy not to disremember us.” There were 
tears of real grief in his eyes as he slipped the cheque 
into his trouser pocket. 

“Now as for my dismissing you,” I said, “I have no 
idea of doing that; so let your minds rest easy.” 

At this, Sapphira’s smile was so entrancing I had to 
smile back; there was no resisting it. 

“Yo’ sho is a gem’man, seh, an’ I begs yo’ humble par¬ 
don. I takes back all I done said ’bout yo’. ’Fo’ Gawd, 
I doesn’t know whut made me say all dat foolishness 
for, no how!” 

“I’ll forgive you on one condition.” 

“You jes has to name hit, seh.” 

“Stop walking up and down your room at night. It 
disturbs me. I can hear it distinctly in my room.” 

At this she faced Ananias and turned a shade whiter, 
or yellower, then looked back at me. 

“Dat ain’t me, seh, hit’s hants.” 

“Hants! What do you mean?” 

“Hants in de house! Hit’s alius been hanted; an’ de 


ii2 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


hants alius walks up an’ down—up an’ down. Lse done 
heard ’em maself, seh, many a night.” 

“Stop talking such nonsense,” I said severely. “Now 
—you may go.” 

They went away happy and smiling; poor, foolish, 
childish creatures!—though after this interview with 
them I find I have a kindlier feeling for them than be¬ 
fore. They have that spark of loyalty in them that 
makes me respect them, and their not wanting to go has 
touched me; not that it is I they want to remain with, it 
is the house they have always known and the association 
from which they do not wish to be separated. It is 
their home, a fixed place in the world which is a part of 
them and they a part of it. It makes them dignified and 
respectable and permanent—traits which I have come to 
the realization are wanting in me. The interview gave 
me also some new idea on the value of money, particu¬ 
larly Sapphira’s desire to have it only to show to others. 

Their explanation of the sound of footsteps is too 
absurd to be considered for a moment. I shall make 
an examination tomorrow and no doubt shall find a 
loose piece of gutter or a swinging door in the attic, or 
a branch of a tree that makes the noise. It is always 
something of this sort that comes to light in the last 
chapter of sensational novels. It is fortunate, though, 
that I am not over given to imagination, for I hear the 
sound distinctly right now as I write. 

It was stupid of that girl to get angry at what I said. 
I suppose that is what Miss Josie would call being “stuck 
up.” I shall avoid her in the future. The whole situ¬ 
ation is boring enough without being bothered by the ab¬ 
surd sensitiveness of a spoiled, village music teacher. 


CHAPTER VII 


April 14- 

After breakfast this morning I asked Ananias to show 
me the steps to the attic. He looked at me furtively and 
said he would get anything I wanted up there. I told 
him I wanted nothing but an explanation of the noise 
I heard every night and that I was sure something could 
be found that would elucidate the matter. He appeared 
somewhat disturbed, viewing it no doubt with the super¬ 
stition of his race, which I understand is unbounded, as 
an evil spirit which should be left in peace so long as it 
was not troublesome. However, I was so sure that the 
noise came from directly over my bedroom that I was 
determined to make a thorough search of the attic. It 
is curious the attitude Ananias takes; at first he said 
he didn’t know if there was a key. When I called his 
attention to the fact that Sapphira had been told to put 
the funeral designs there, he said he would ask her if 
she had the key. He returned in a few minutes saying 
she had gone to look for it; but even after I had gone 
out on the front veranda and smoked several cigarettes 
I had to call him again and tell him I was waiting to be 
shown the way. Evidently he dreads the idea of going 
up there himself, and does not want me to go. 

Finally he appeared with an old rusty key and con¬ 
ducted me to the back of the house. Just outside the 
dining room he stopped before a flight of steps built on 



114 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


to the side of the house. I had noticed it before but with 
no special interest. Now I saw that it led to a dormer 
window before which was a small balcony. He pre¬ 
ceded me up the steps, which were steep and rickety, and 
fumbled a long time with a rusty padlock which had evi¬ 
dently not been opened for years. He had to go 
back for some oil to loosen the lock before we could 
enter. 

It was a long narrow attic, the walls ceiled with un¬ 
painted pine, and lighted by two dormer windows, one 
at the side and one at the front of the house. There 
were many old trunks and boxes and a pile of discarded 
furniture, all covered thick with dust and cobwebs. I 
walked from one end to the other, examined the windows 
and their fastenings and finally went back to Ananias 
who stood in the centre of the room and, with a hawk’s 
eye, watched every movement I made. I believe the 
foolish old fellow was trembling with fright. When I 
looked at the ceiling, I saw at once that the room com¬ 
prised only one half the space that the house covered. 
A wall divided the space in two parts. I called Ananias’s 
attention to this and told him I wanted to go on the other 
side that was directly above my room. He said there 
was nothing there, that this side was the only part which 
had been made into a room. This was provoking as the 
noise came from the side I could not get to; but as there 
seemed no way to get there short of tearing out the 
partition, which was carrying the matter to an absurd 
degree, I turned back to the steps. 

Sapphira was watching for our return and solemnly 
inspected my countenance for a clue to the result of the 
expedition. Both of them were obviously alarmed. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 115 

“I did not see the funeral designs, Sapphira. What 
did you do with them?” I said, at the foot of the steps. 

“Dey’s in de cellar, seh.” 

“Why not in the attic?” 

She looked down with a contrite expression. 

“To tell de truf, seh, I wuz skerred to go up dah.” 

“Afraid of what, Sapphira?” 

“Of hants. Gawd knows I doesn’t want to meet a 
hant.” 

I turned away laughing at their fears, and strolled out 
to the garden to look up at the side of the roof I could 
not enter. There was a dormer window on this side 
also, with inside blinds half open. Walking towards 
the front I found that the window there was double and 
from the interior of the attic only half of it was seen, 
this due to the dividing wall. Branches of the big oak tree 
brushed against this window and obscured a clear view of 
it, which might account for the noise; or the inside blinds 
in the side window might be loose on their hinges and, 
swinging to and fro, cause the sound. Deciding on this 
as an explanation I told Ananias to climb out on the roof 
and examine both windows. 

I took the crossed receipts for the money to Colonel 
Morancey, which he approved of, saying that this was 
the form employed for negroes who could not write. 
Before I left I mentioned the noise I heard at night and 
the negroes’ fear of it, smiling to show him that I con¬ 
sidered it quite a joke. He did not answer my smile and 
asked me to describe the noise as accurately as possible. 
I did, adding: “The servants say it is nothing new, that 
the noise has been heard for many years, and they evi¬ 
dently consider it seriously as a ghost. Absurd, of 


n6 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


course, yet the sound is exactly as if someone were walk¬ 
ing up and down.” 

“You notice it during the day?” 

“No; but I am not much in my room during the day; 
and naturally the house is quieter at night.” 

“It may be something like you say, a swinging shutter 
or the branch of a tree. You are occupying Miss Clai¬ 
borne’s bedroom, I believe.” 

“Yes; and the sound comes from directly over it.” 

“You have slept there three nights now?” 

“Yes.” 

“Hm-m! Perhaps it’s the effect of your long trip, the 
sea voyage and the train journey!” 

“My man Perkins has heard the noise too.” 

He smiled urbanely. “He has made the same trip.” 

For some reason I felt annoyed at his reception of the 
affair; at first he was very serious and at the end wanted 
to treat it as a joke. 

“You forget, though,” I insisted, “that the servants 
say the noise has been heard for years.” 

“Negroes believe every house is haunted; it’s part of 
their religion.” 

I rose to go. “If you will dine with me tonight, I 
believe I can give you an opportunity to hear for your¬ 
self.” 

“Thank you—I’ll come. At seven—or have you 
changed the hour?” 

“No, I have changed nothing. Why should I, for a 
month?” 

“You hold to that idea still?” he inquired, sincerely 
anxious this time. I wonder if he is beginning to have 
fears about the money he has advanced me. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 117 

“In that I have come to no decision—yes.” 

“If you stay I suppose you’ll want to make a lot of 
changes.” 

“I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “There is so 
much tradition about the place that I think I should hesi¬ 
tate before breaking into it.” 

“The change' is bound to come, sooner or later.” 

“Is it ? Why not try to fight it off ?” 

“This from you!” He laughed and laid his hand on 
my shoulder. “You are the last fellow in the world I 
expected to hear this from. I thought you prided your¬ 
self on your—your modernism!” 

“I do stand for modernism in art and music and liter¬ 
ature—I prefer the modern French school in everything 
to anything that has gone before. But family and 
tradition is another thing. I think I like them best 
when there are cobwebs round; it gives one the feeling 
of permanence in the past and preparation for the future. 
Nothing could be more satisfying to me than to inherit 
an old English house filled with old portraits, old plate, 
old everything that belonged to people who belonged to 
me.” 

He waited a moment after I had finished, looking 
at me and smiling. “My dear boy, don’t you know that’s 
just what you have inherited!” 

I laughed impatiently. “You call my cousin’s house 
that?” 

“I do. It’s only a hundred years old, I’ll admit; but in 
that time it has gone through as much and probably 
stands for more than any place in an older country.” 

“How can you make a statement like that!” 

“Why not! Our Civil War was the greatest event the 


n8 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


world has ever witnessed. Go home, young man, and 
begin reading about what you have inherited!” 

I left him, interested in spite of myself in what he had 
said, and with the thought that perhaps I have not been 
playing entirely fair. I flatter myself that I have enough 
esprit large to give everything a chance and it may be 
that I can make the situation here somewhat interesting. 
There is no doubt that much that is absolutely new to 
me has come into my life in the last few days; people 
and situations and influences that I had never dreamed 
of before. Walking home along the quiet, shady street, 
I determined I would try to find in it something that 
would appeal to me. This resolution carried me into the 
library, and before it had time to cool, I had taken from 
the shelf a thick book bound in calf and sat down and 
begun to read. So it is that I have actually begun on the 
history of the Confederate States of America. 

I kept my appointment with Miss Josie this afternoon 
and went out to the Veterans’ Home. It is at the edge 
of the town on a hill which overlooks the river, a beau¬ 
tiful spot from which this broad stream is seen flowing 
out of the lowlands of Louisiana and sweeping in a 
graceful curve against the hills of Mississippi. It is a 
well chosen location for old men who are contemplating 
eternity, for the view is conducive to thought unbounded 
by trivial details. I expressed this idea to Miss Josie, 
which did not appeal to her, judging from her reply, in 
which she said that it—the view—would be more in¬ 
teresting to them—the veterans—as being of the same 
river which had kept the Yankee gunboats for so long a 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 119 

time at Vicksburg and given General Grant many months 
of anxiety. 

“Surely they will forget this War in their old age,” 
I protested. “More peaceful thoughts will come to them. 
They will look towards the future—towards heaven.” 

“Where the biggest war on record was fought! 
Haven’t you read Paradise Lost?” she retorted. “If I 
catch one of them forgetting, out he goes!” 

“I judge, then, you are to be a sort of inquisitor.” 

“I’m to be the matron in charge. And you can count 
on me to keep their patriotism alive to the last minute!” 
I’m sure I can. 

The house is of that nondescript architecture that I 
see so much of here, and noticed from the car window 
on the journey. No name seems to describe it but Amer¬ 
ican, and as for period, it has none. It might be termed 
North American Rococo. The exterior of the building 
is made of planks laid lengthwise and overlapping, the 
windows and doors are badly proportioned, and the ve¬ 
randa is supported by atrociously spindling posts fash¬ 
ioned in some inconceivable style on which the detail re¬ 
sembles the frosting on a wedding cake. The roof has 
no cornice, only a gutter to break its connection with the 
walls. It is painted a sickly yellow with green shutters, 
and the rococo on the posts is not left in the quiet of 
solid color but the design is accentuated by being 
“picked out” in vivid green. 

We walked around the exterior first and stopped be¬ 
fore the front entrance. Miss Josie was bursting with 
pride. 

“What do you think of it?” she demanded. 


120 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“As a piece of architecture?” 

“As a piece of anything.” 

“It has the distinction of being the most frightful 
building I have ever seen. This veranda should be 
blown off with dynamite, and low, substantial, sun- 
shaded porches put up; I mean low ceilinged, shadowy 
corridors with heavy columns on which could be run 
vines. Then you would have a place that would express 
comfort and rest. The aspect of this building is enough 
to drive your veterans once more into secession.” 

She surveyed me with condescension. “Young man, 
you do talk a surprising lot of foolishness. What in the 
mischief do poor old decrepit men want with that sort of 
thing? All they want is a soft bed to rest their weary 
bones on, some decent food, and plenty of tobacco. 
Shady corridors—vines—fiddlesticks!” 

I followed her meekly into the hall. Bare white walls, 
ceilings too high to be homelike, pine doors and wood¬ 
work left that hideous natural pine color, a stairway nar¬ 
row and steep, big bathrooms with every modern con¬ 
venience, a practical kitchen, and a commodious base¬ 
ment with a furnace;—everything extremely practical, 
but so ugly, so uncompromisingly ugly! 

“It’s certainly perfect—isn’t it!” Miss Josie stopped in 
the upper hall. “There’s every modern convenience. 
Electric lights everywhere, bell buttons, running water 
in every room—and a dumb waiter!” 

I had to admit she had forgotten nothing. 

“This is the room I have reserved for you.” She 
opened a door and we entered a large corner room with 
six windows. The view was magnificent, a bit of the 
town, the full slope of the hill to the river, and the river 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 121 

itself stretching out for many miles. “You’re to fur¬ 
nish this one.” 

I took in the possibilities with a glance. “Are there 
any restrictions ?” 

“To what?” 

“To the furnishings.” 

“No. That’s left to you.” 

“You promise not to interfere?” I smiled. 

“Interfere! Of course not! Only I insist on iron 
beds. I won’t have a wooden one in the place; I reckon 
you know why.” 

I stepped off the length and breadth of the room, 
measured the windows with my eyes, and took in the 
spaces suitable for furniture. 

“Two beds,” she said, “in each room, and twenty 
rooms. Think of it! Forty poor old men to be fed 
and lodged for the rest of their lives! My! but I’ve 
worked to get this!” 

She sat down on a box near the window and crossing 
her hands in her lap, looked out across the view; and as 
she sat there, so silent, so old, and yet so full of energy, 
there came over me a sudden appreciation of what she 
had done. It was the big accomplishment of her life, 
this founding of a home for those who had given their 
best, and had lost, and who, now, in their last days, 
needed rest and peace. I don’t believe she saw any honor 
in it for herself; she merely accepted it as a duty, as her 
mission in life, and had gone about it with the vigor that 
always accompanies one’s heart efforts. It was beautiful 
in what it represented—patriotism. 

I went to her side and picked up her withered old 
hand. 


122 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“You’ve done a big thing,” I said gently. “I just 
seem to realize it.” 

She looked up at me surprised, though sympathetic 
when she saw my sincerity, and shook her head. “You 
can never see it; you are too young.” 

“I can imagine, though.” 

“I saw it all—I see it now—I’ll see it forever. And 
to think it was all for nothing—that we lost—were 
beaten—beaten!” 

She had gone back to the past, and I had meant the 
present. When I told her this, she shook her head once 
more. 

“It’s all the same thing to me. I do this because I 
love my country and its cause.” She swept her hand 
round the room. “This represents everything to me— 
relatives, parents, husband, children, love. And—I shall 
die here.” 

It was the first time I had seen her show this gentle, 
serious side of her nature, which was usually so carefully 
cloaked. We remained a little while longer in silence 
and then walked home together. Again it came over me 
what a wonderful thing this patriotism is, this love of 
country and its rights, whether they be rights or wrongs, 
which one is willing to die for. I felt as if I had been 
talking to an outraged Pole, or a Frenchman who had 
spent years in Alsace-Lorraine, or a Dane in Schleswig- 
Holstein. 

After supper this evening I showed Colonel Morancey 
the book I had begun to read, admitting that I had found 
it somewhat dry. He said that if I wanted to get at the 
war in a more personal way I should talk to those who 
had been through it, citing Miss Josie and Mrs. Bruce 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 123 

as good examples from the women’s side—which he said 
had been a tremendous factor in the struggle—and men¬ 
tioning several old men who lived in the town and who 
would be delighted to recount their experiences. I in¬ 
sisted that I must have a foundation of facts first to un¬ 
derstand and appreciate what they should tell me. He 
answered that I should then have to do what I called dry 
reading. 

“But it isn’t dry one bit,” he went on. “To me it has 
always been a tremendous tragedy, more absorbing than 
anything the world has seen. You see we were all 
brothers starting out in a new world to make a living, and 
suddenly this tremendous question tore us asunder and 
ranged us, one against the other. The close personal re¬ 
lations between us is what made it so stupendous.” 

He sat down in a deep library chair, one that is more 
modern and more uncomfortable than the others and 
went on talking. I gave him a cigar, lighted it for him, 
and leaned against the mantel, listening. It was deeply 
interesting to see him in this field of which I had caught 
a glimpse this morning; and whether it was accentuated 
by the champagne I had given him or was merely his 
devotion to the subject, his whole personality seemed to 
have changed; even his language became more colloquial 
than I had noticed before, more flavored with the inflec¬ 
tion I had found in the voices of his friends. He told 
me of the first discussion of the slave question, the re¬ 
ports that drifted from Washington to the plantations, 
the quarrels in the Senate, Jefferson Davis’ speech of 
resignation; then the news of Fort Sumter where the 
first cannon was fired by the Confederates and rever¬ 
berated in the heart of every Southerner. He spoke of a 


124 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

night when his father had ridden into town, this very 
Cottonville, forty miles from their plantation home, just 
to hear the bells ringing which announced that Mississippi 
was no longer a state of the Union. 

The words flowed from him with an intensity which 
showed the deep impression left upon him. It was this 
same passion of patriotism illuminating his whole being 
and radiating from him. It made him a young man 
again, full of virility and the force of convictions, in 
fact a personage, forgetful of self in the obsession of an 
idea. Watching him, the thought came to me that what 
one needs in this life to become really great is to possess 
this passion for something—be it a question of country, 
of art, or of a woman. It lifts one above the petty de¬ 
tails of mere existence and places one on a great height 
from which the world becomes a vast arena in which only 
big things have being. 

I think I grew to like him more this evening than I 
had imagined possible. He struck me as being more 
himself, more manly, more primitive. Every little while 
he had taken the cigar from his mouth and spat quite 
across the room to where a cuspidor was modestly hiding 
beyond the mantel. He must have known it was there— 
I had not seen it before—and how under the sun he could 
spit that far and hit the spot every time, is quite beyond 
me. It is a new accomplishment to me, and sometimes 
drew my attention from the drift of his narrative. 

The clock striking eleven stopped him abruptly. He 
rose to go. 

“Here I’m keeping you up—and a-wearying you with 
War yarns. You’ll be thinking soon I’m as bad as Miss 
Josie.” He laughed more jovially, too. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 125 

“You have interested me immensely. I wish you 
would not think of going.” 

When he had put on his hat, I suddenly remembered 
I had asked him to come particularly to hear the sound 
of the footsteps over my room. I mentioned this and 
he smiled, adding indifferently that any other time 
would do. 

“But you are here now. Why not come into the bed¬ 
room for a moment!” 

He consented reluctantly, and I showed him into the 
room and indicated a chair. The house was very quiet, 
almost a pin drop would have been heard, and yet, as we 
both sat there silent, there was absolutely no noise of any 
description. He glanced at me and smiled. 

“You know how it is,” I laughed, “when you want a 
child or a dog or anything to show off. But I assure 
you—” 

Just then came a muffled noise, followed by the sound 
that resembled footsteps. 

“There!” I cried triumphantly. 

He met my glance with surprise. 

“I hear nothing; do you ?” 

“You must hear that sound. Listen ... I hear it 
quite distinctly. It is right there.” I pointed to the 
ceiling. 

He smiled at my excitement in a most irritating way, 
so that I got up and called Perkins. When he appeared 
I made him come into the room and listen. Seeing from 
his expression that he heard the noise I began questioning 
him for Colonel Morancey’s benefit. 

“When did you first hear this noise?” 

“The night we came, sir.” 


126 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“And since then?” 

“Every night, sir.” 

“Ever during the day?” 

“Yes, sir; once or twice.” 

“Where is your room?” 

“Directly back of your bathroom, sir.” 

I turned to Colonel Morancey. “Do you think we are 
both dreaming?” 

He rose, drawing himself up to his full height and 
shaking his head in a most annoying way. “It may be 
that my hearing is beginning to fail,” he said, “but I 
must admit I don’t hear a thing.” 

I looked at Perkins and he at me, then we both looked 
at Colonel Morancey. 

“I’m sorry to have troubled you,” I said, showing, no 
doubt, my impatience. “I’m probably losing my mind. 
I’m glad, though, I have Perkins to keep me in coun¬ 
tenance.” 

Colonel Morancey turned quietly and went into the 
hall. 

“Even if you did hear a strange sound, it can’t be foot¬ 
steps,” he said at the front door. “It is some acoustic 
property of the house, I reckon. Take my advice and 
forget about it. By-the-way,” he added abruptly. “I 
had a letter from your plantation manager today, asking 
me to bring you up there this week to look over the crop. 
The cotton is just coming up. Will you go with me 
Monday?” 

“Day after tomorrow. Yes, I shall be glad to go.” 

“And tomorrow afternoon I should be glad if you 
would make some visits with me during the afternoon 
and evening. Several folks have asked me to bring you 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 127 

to call.” Again I agreed and he held out his hand. 
“Goodnight. Take my advice about the noise and don’t 
let it bother you.” 

I waited on the porch until I heard the gate click, then 
went in, closing the front door after me. 

Perkins was waiting for me in the hall. “If you don't 
mind my saying it, sir, that old gentleman heard the 
noise just as much as you and me.” 

“What makes you think so, Perkins?” 

“I could tell it by his face, sir.” 

“Then why should he deny it?” 

Perkins used an abominable, expressive gesture that 
he must have caught from his rastaquouere Latin- 
American employer. I dismissed him and turned into 
my room. 

I know I am in possession of all my senses and I can 
assert positively that I hear the sound of footsteps com¬ 
ing from just above my room. I stood in the middle of 
the floor and listened and heard again. I took out my 
watch and counted off ten minutes and during that time 
there was no cessation of the sound. It is regular, al¬ 
most automatically so, and for that reason I feel that it 
must be a sound made by some mechanical contrivance 
rather than a human being. 

After perhaps a quarter of an hour I thought of call¬ 
ing Ananias and asking him if he had carried out my 
instructions of the morning. With this in view I went 
into the dining room which was dark, and on the point 
of lighting a match I was attracted by a light outside the 
window which came from the servants' house. Going 
to this window, I saw, standing before this house in 
the glow which came from an open door, both negroes 


128 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


and Colonel Morancey. The negroes were in attitudes 
of strict attention, exactly as if they were receiving 
instructions. 

My first impulse was to call out to them and ask what 
had happened. It must have been something unusual, 
for the faces of all three were serious; then I remembered 
that Colonel Morancey’s being there had something more 
than unusual about it—it was suspicious. Not more 
than half an hour before I had seen him go out the 
front gate. As a second thought I struck the match, 
lighted the gas, and went to the window and raised it. 
The door to the servants’ house was closed and no one 
was to be seen. 

I called to Ananias twice before he appeared at his 
door; then I told him to come to my room. 

‘‘What was Colonel Morancey doing out there?” 

His face was a perfect mask of amazement. 

“De Colonel! Whar, seh?” 

“In front of your room, talking to you and Sapphira.” 

“Yo’ seed him dah, seh!” His amazement gave way 
to an ingratiating smile, when he realized he could not 
lie out of it. 

“Yes, I saw him; and a little while before I saw him 
go out my gate.” 

Now his expression was one of intense relief. 

“Dat’s right, seh, I met him jes a leetle way down de 
street an’ I axed him to come back wid me so’s to help 
’suade Safify dat ma purchase of de ottermobile wuz a 
good ’un. Yo’ see, seh, nigger ’oman’s jes lak white 
ladies—dey neber tuk a man’s word for nothin’. She 
done said de ottermobile wuzn’t worth three hundred 
dollars—an’ I jes knowed all de time hit wuz. De 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 129 

Colonel, he done tole me hit wuz a bargain an’ I axed him 
to tell her so. Dat’s all, seh,” he ended with a sigh 
worthy of Ulysses after the fall of Troy. 

“You mean to tell me you are going to buy a motor!” 

Yes, seh—dat’s jes whut dis ole nigger’s gwine to 
do. I’se jes wore out wid all dese new-fangled niggers 
tellin’ me I’se left ober from de War. I’se gwine to show 
dem a thing or two.” 

“But you don’t know anything about driving a car!” 

“Shucks, seh, ain’t I been dribin’ hosses all ma life! 
An’ a ottermobile ain’t nothin’ to a fractious hoss. 
’Course I kin dribe one. Yo’ jes wait an’ see, seh.” 

He stood before me, congratulating himself, I’m sure, 
on having shifted my suspicions; and in the silence the 
sound above my room began again. He started and shot 
a look of fright towards me. 

“Did you examine the windows in the roof today—as 
I told you ?” 

“No, seh, I didn’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“To tell de truf, seh, I’se skeered.” 

“Then I shall have to do it myself.” 

“No, seh, ’fo’ Gawd I’ll do hit de first thing in de 
mornin’.” 

“You may go. That’s all.” 

I have been sitting here an hour or more attempting to 
make something out of these peculiar proceedings. It 
may be the effect of this deathly still room and the in¬ 
sistence of that sound. I know not. But I have come 
to the conclusion that something mysterious is going on 
here, and that Colonel Morancey and the servants are 
implicated. I am not only puzzled over the whole af- 


igo THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

fair, I am rather angry, and the annoying part is that I 
am, in a way, helpless to find out what it means. Can 
there be something they wish to hide from me? If it 
were not so late and so foolish, I should go up to the 
attic right now and find out what the infernal pitter- 
patter is. I shall do it the very first thing in the morn¬ 
ing, and I intend to tear away the partition and get to 
the exact spot over my room. 


CHAPTER VIII 


April 15- 

Before I was out of bed this morning Ananias came in 
to tell me that Mrs. Bruce had sent over to ask if I 
would go to church with her. I accepted at once, frankly 
curious to see how the village music teacher would re¬ 
ceive me after her haughty demeanor of two days ago; 
her honeyed sweetness—the opinion of others—having 
proved a mixture of thyme and vinegar to me, lent an ele¬ 
ment of zest to the anticipation. 

By the time I had dressed and breakfasted it was al¬ 
most eleven o’clock. Perkins was much pleased with my 
appearance—I had put on a morning coat and top hat— 
and told me that I made him think of the Grands Boule¬ 
vards, a doubtful compliment in spite of his wish to say 
something agreeable. I haven t the slightest desire to 
look like a boulevardier. However, I took it as he meant 
it, and went out feeling well dressed and consequently at 
my best. It is remarkable the influence clothes have 
upon one’s character. I am a different man in different 
clothes. If I am shabbily dressed I am not only ill at 
ease but actually shabby mentally, I have no assurance of 
body or spirit, I am under hack and niggardly. I notice 
a similar effect on character in clothes made for special 
occasions; riding clothes give the wearer a certain man¬ 
nishness and bravado that is not necessarily a part of 
him; lounge suits make one informal and a little careless 


132 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


in manners; and a top hat invariably straightens one and 
lengthens the neck. Not that my neck needs lengthening 
though, for it is probably my ugliest feature, possessing 
a prominent Adam’s apple which is the mortification of 
my soul. For this reason I put on an extremely high 
collar this morning which I persuaded myself hid the 
abominable lump; and my tie, a slaty mauve, sharply out¬ 
lined by a white waistcoat edging, appeared to me, as I 
looked in the mirror, a perfect approach toward the art¬ 
istic without being exotic. My stick was a plain length 
of birch stained grey with a dull silver band. 

It was a perfect spring morning, the air balmy with 
enough life in it to make one feel like walking on leisurely 
for an indefinite time. I took a glance at the garden as I 
went out and found the jonquils flowering gorgeously, 
the violets more fragrant than ever, some newly arrived 
tulips and a spray of jessamine with yellow blossoms. 

I caught Sapphira peering at me from the dining room 
window; and when she saw that I had seen her she came 
forward. 

“Yo’ sho does look gran’, seh,” she volunteered with 
her caressing smile. “I neber did see a gem’man look 
so fine.” 

She is such a goose I can’t help laughing at her. 

“You are only making amends for your slanders,” I 
replied amiably. “But I don’t trust you behind my back, 
Sapphira. I regret to say this; but it’s true.” 

Her smile vanished instantly. “Yo’ ain’t gwine to 
hole dat up ’ginst dis pore ole nigger alius, is yo’ ?” 

“I most assuredly am; till you prove yourself worthy 
of trust.” 

“How’s I gwine do dat, seh?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


i33 


“That is for you to find out, Sapphira.” 

Fancy talking to one’s servants in such a manner! 
Yet it doesn’t seem like familiarity in this case. It must 
be the guilelessness of these negroes that makes such a 
thing possible. To me they are like children, not really 
grown people with intelligent minds. I wonder if this 
is the feeling Southern people have towards them; if so, 
I think I have got the first clue to their former relations 
with their slaves. 

Ananias was sweeping the front walk with a vigor 
that showed plainly he was expecting me to appear. He 
stopped as I approached and stepped aside for me to pass, 
bowing low, his eyes sparkling as he took in my grande 
tenue. 

“Whoop, seh, yo’s dressed to kill!” 

“I hope not,” I replied, “I’m not going to church as a 
sacrifice.” 

His eyes beamed on me. “I kin see all de young ladies 
nudging each other when yo’ comes in de church. Dey’s 
all a-goin’ to make sheep’s eyes at yo’, seh.” 

“I detest sheep—so I know I shouldn’t like sheep’s 
eyes.” 

“Must I fetch de kerrige to de church for yo’ to come 
back in, seh?” 

“Good heavens! That old rattle-trap! No. Wait 
till I get a new one.” 

“Be’s yo’ gwine to git a new one?” 

“Perhaps so! I may get a motor.” 

He began to scratch his head reflectively over some¬ 
thing. “If yo’ doesn’t mind, seh, may I axe yo’ a 
leetle favor?” 

So these compliments from both him and Sapphira 


134 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


were another deep laid plot to get something out of me. 
I was really disappointed. 

“Out with it!” I said. 

“I’se done bought de flivver, seh. Kin I keep hit for 
a day or two in yo’ barn; jes till I gits a shed built for 
hit on de jinin back lot.” 

“You may do it under one condition.” 

“Name hit, seh.” 

“Go up in the attic and examine those windows. I 
didn’t sleep a wink last night.” 

He gave a furtive glance towards the roof. “Yas, 
seh, I gibs you ma word I’ll do hit whilst you’s at 
church.” 

Mrs. Bruce was awaiting me on her porch and came 
down the steps to meet me. I really admire her very 
much, and this morning she looked so sweet and pretty, 
so gently bred and yet so free from any pretense of what 
is called style or up-to-dateness. She possesses a sort of 
distinction which makes itself felt without the trappings 
that we moderns have grown to think create it. She was 
very plainly dressed in black, though one did not notice 
what she had on, being conscious only of a very sweet 
face framed in grey hair and an erect figure that spoke 
pride and character. I can’t describe the impression she 
makes on me •; I can only feel it. 

The honey-pot was not in evidence, and though I took 
pains to make no inquiries about her, Mrs. Bruce ex¬ 
plained that she had a class in Sunday school and had 
gone an hour before. It appears that she has an obses¬ 
sion for teaching—a characteristic of all egoists. Mrs. 
Bruce also told me that Colonel Morancey had telephoned 
her that morning and suggested that she should ask me 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


135 


to go to church and that I should sit, by all means, in Miss 
Claiborne’s pew. She went on telling me of my cousin’s 
great interest in the church and how, during the last 
days of the War, when Cottonville was under Union 
military rule, she had not failed once to rise and leave 
the church when the prayer for the President of the 
United States was being read. 

It proved a nice little church with weathered brick 
walls covered with ivy, really English in feeling, and 
hidden away in a quiet little street, seemingly out of the 
world. The interior was simple and restful, with that 
indefinable air of tranquillity and sanctity that modern 
churches are so prone to lack. In the old prayer book I 
picked up, I found my cousin’s name written in ink 
grown brown with age, the script most carefully exe¬ 
cuted with a fine pen. Unconsciously I turned to the 
prayer which had been her bete noire and found United 
States erased and Confederate States taking the place. 
How strange that I should be using the prayer book of 
a relative of whom I did not know the existence a few 
weeks ago, and yet who had her eyes on me all the time! 
It gave me an uncanny sensation. 

The organ prelude began. It was Bizet’s Agnus Dei, 
well played in spite of the aged instrument which I could 
not see, as it was placed at the rear of the church. When 
it was ending I whispered to Mrs. Bruce: 

“You have a very good organist.” 

Her face tinged a slight pink: “It is Rose.” 

“She really has talent. Why don’t you send her to 
Europe ? She could be made into a great success.” 

She shook her head a little sadly: “I do not approve 
of women going into public life if it can be helped. Old- 


136 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

fashioned, you are saying, and of course I am. But I 
only want Rose to be a good wife and mother.” 

“Surely being a great musician is better than—than 
darning stockings!” 

“Darning stockings can be the most beautiful thing in 
the world when one loves the owner of the stockings.” 

She really is a dear, this old lady, and the way she 
argues her point, with just enough insistence to show she 
means every word of it, yet all gently and smilingly ex¬ 
pressed, is captivating. I wanted to discuss the relative 
importance of darning and piano playing—but the serv¬ 
ice began just then and interrupted. 

I went through the service as if I had been doing it 
every Sunday and I must confess I got some enjoyment 
out of it. Form has always appealed to me and there 
is something in the sequence of the Anglican service that, 
provided one follows it intelligently, creates a state of 
reverence. The whole wording is done in such good, 
well chosen English; only I do wish, in reading the 
Psalter, everyone would not think it his special duty to 
get to the end of the verse before anyone else. It’s a 
contagious sort of thing, this hurrying, and against my 
better judgment I found I was determined to finish before 
someone just behind me with a stern, loud voice. It is 
an utterly foolish custom which I have noticed before. 
The sermon was frightfully long and taken from Revela¬ 
tion: “One woe is past; and, behold, there come two 
woes more hereafter,” which caught my attention on ac¬ 
count of its pessimistic viewpoint; and when its gloom 
was accentuated by the letting loose of the four angels 
who had been bound in the great river Euphrates, I saw 
that it was going to be one of those sermons intended to 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


*37 


frighten one into the straight and narrow path; and I 
don’t believe we deserve any credit for being frightened 
into being good, I yawned under my hand and began 
thinking of the pleasant sunshine without. 

After the service Mrs. Bruce and I waited in the vesti¬ 
bule for her daughter who was playing a Recessional of 
Gounod with much pedaling and considerable dash. 
While waiting I was presented to several people who came 
up to Mrs. Bruce. Each one spoke of my cousin as hav¬ 
ing been his or her most intimate friend and welcomed 
me to Cottonville. Among them were two young women, 
the Misses Shack, who, I learned afterwards, are the 
heiresses of the town. They were rather pretty, wore 
smart frocks, and appeared inclined to be most cordial to 
me, shaking hands and asking some amiable questions as 
to my arrival and sojourn here and if I found Cottonville 
interesting after Paris, ending with an invitation to call 
on them. 

“What nice girls!” I commented to Mrs. Bruce after 
they had gone. “Good friends of yours, I presume.” 

“No,” she smiled. “It was you they wanted to meet. 
They never come to see Rose and me. They are rich; 
we are poor.” 

“They appeared to me quite pleasant.” 

“They are,” she answered with a slight flush. “I 
have always found them very genteel. They represent 
our new fashionable set here. They are from Indiana; 
have been living here about ten years; their father is a 
grocer.” 

“Yet you say they are in the smart set! I had an idea 
you wouldn’t accept tradespeople.” 

Again she smiled. “You are not in Europe now. In 


138 that late unpleasantness 


America it is not a crime to be a successful merchant.” 

“But surely they look up to your family and tradi¬ 
tions r 

“I’m afraid not. Money wipes out tradition.” 

There was not the least shade of resentment in her 
words; and yet I felt all that one of coarser calibre would 
have said. So I have stumbled into my first glimpse of 
the social situation here. 

Miss Bruce finally made her appearance and as she 
approached I waited to let her choose the manner of 
greeting. It was with a smile she evidently considered 
fetching. I was determined to comment on her previous 
behavior, though in a way that would show her how 
lightly I had taken it. 

“Pm so glad,” I made pretense of extravagant relief. 

“Why?” she asked. 

“That you have forgiven me. Not that it was my 
fault at all,” I added, “but I feared your misunderstand¬ 
ing might continue.” 

She looked at me with a long searching glance. She 
has disconcerting eyes when she looks straight at you; 
they are so big and clear and honest—and really pretty, 
just the color of autumn leaves with the sun shining 
through them. 

“I’m glad too—if I did misunderstand,” she said 
finally. 

“Of course you did. I am the one who should have 
been angry.” 

“You?” 

“At your misunderstanding me.” 

She laughed softly and looked at her mother and then 
back at me. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


139 


“I believe you get the better of me—every time.” 

“I hope I shall continue to. So we aren’t angry any 
longer ?” 

“No. I never stay angry over ten minutes. I wish 
I could.” 

Whether this denotes character I am not yet prepared 
to say, though I’m inclined to say it shows the opposite. 
One who is not capable of retaining anger appears to me 
to be rather wishy-washy; for even a great love is never 
so splendid as a superb hate. Witness the Spartan 
mother who could breed sons to avenge the death of 
their brother. 

We triangled along the brick pavements, passing some 
quaint old houses with gardens about them, all some¬ 
what in a state of neglect. Mrs. Bruce explained that 
this was the oldest quarter of the town and before and 
during the War, the fashionable neighborhood. There 
was nothing of any special interest from an architectural 
viewpoint, save now and then a good door, always of 
classic design, and the old picket fences which are some¬ 
times worthy of attention, particularly as they represent 
a custom so specially American, and show a diversity of 
taste. 

It was almost hot as we got back toward our houses, 
and the shade of the trees along my street was welcome. 
The more I see of this street the more I like it; it grows 
on one through its sheer restfulness. In spite of myself 
I seem to be developing a real affection for it. When I 
mentioned this Mrs. Bruce looked at me with interest. 

“You know, you are proving quite a problem to 
us.” 

“I—how?” 


i 4 o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“I mean whether you will be content to remain here 
five years.” 

“The Colonel insists I'll have to.” 

“I haven’t the slightest doubt,” Rose put in. 

“That I shall stay?” 

“That you won’t stay. Of course you won’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“Why should you?—with your friends and all your 
interests in Paris. You might have stood it if you had 
come when you were younger; but you can’t give all 
that up now, can you?” 

“Pm not so terribly old, you know,” I answered 
quickly. “Even if you did wish me so.” 

She laughed gayly at this; and Mrs. Bruce asked what 
I meant by it, which, with an inexplicable thrill of satis¬ 
faction, showed me that she did not know of that first 
encounter outside the kitchen window. I had wondered 
all along if Mrs. Bruce had been told of the drubbing 
I had inflicted that morning, and I found myself gloating 
over the discovery that she had not 

It is strange how a secret shared between two creates a 
feeling of intimacy. 

“Didn’t you know your daughter was disappointed 
when she found I was a young man?” 

“Yes, I knew it; but surely she didn’t tell you!” 

“No; I heard it, though.” 

“I can’t imagine where.” 

“And I shan’t tell you.” 

“Rose!” She stopped and faced her daughter who 
was now blushing crimson. “I believe you know who 
told him!” 

“I’m sure she doesn’t, Mrs. Bruce,” I hastened to reply. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


Mi 

“But to continue; you think I’m too old to remain, Miss 
Bruce?” 

She nodded, still showing much color. 

“I don’t know that I agree with her,” Mrs. Bruce took 
up the reply. “I believe you might find some attractions 
here.” 

“Darning—for example?” I asked. 

“Not necessarily that,” she laughed, stopping before 
her gate. “Come in and let me tell you my ideas on the 
subject. And why not stay to dinner with us? We are 
alone and the meal will be frugal—but the hospitality is 
bountiful.” 

“I shall be delighted. I hate eating alone; and it’s 
ruinous to the digestion. But I must go over and tell 
Sapphira I shall not be there.” 

“Let me call her,” Rose interrupted. “May I ? Then 
you can tell her without going over.” 

“Certainly—if you will.” 

She went to the fence and gave a low who-o-o-o sound, 
not loud, though of carrying power, for it brought Sap¬ 
phira at once to the kitchen window. 

“Who’s dat a-callin’ dis nigger?” 

“Saffy! Come here quick.” 

Another minute and Sapphira was speeding across the 
lawn. 

“Your master, Saffy, is going to stay to dinner 
with us.” 

“Shucks! An’ I’se done made a prune merveille!” 
She pronounced the merveille perfectly. “ ’Sposin’ I 
sends hit ober for yo’-all to eat?” 

“All right—do. That will be just lovely!” She 
turned back to me after she had accepted Sapphira’s 


i 4 2 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


offer: “You don’t mind, do you, eating your own des¬ 
sert in a neighbor’s house? Otherwise you would have 
to be content with preserved figs and cake. We haven’t 
any dessert today. It was lucky for us; wasn’t it?” 

“That depends on the quality of my dessert.” 

“Prune merveille! It’s the best thing in the world;— 
and Saffy knows just how to make it.” 

We sat down on the porch while Mrs. Bruce went into 
the house. 

“You and Sapphira seem to be great friends,” I said 
with a reminiscent smile not wholly made up of satisfac¬ 
tion. 

She has a graceful way of sitting in these rocking 
chairs which I notice on every porch I pass—they have 
recently become popular in France, called fauteuil a bas¬ 
cule, and said to be an American invention. Her feet, 
touching and leaving the floor regularly as the motion of 
the chair brought her forward or backward, showed per¬ 
fectly turned ankles with a glimpse now and then of a 
shapely calf. The motion is lazy and comfortable, and 
necessitates a certain abandon. She took off her hat 
and held it in her lap, using one hand to arrange her 
hair—that charming gesture that all women employ, and 
which, for the moment, gives even a hag some semblance 
of attraction. The sunlight touched her from the back 
and made a thin line of gold at the edges of her hair and 
face. It gave a warmth to her rich coloring, accentuating 
the fragrance of her youth and her obvious femininity. 

“Saffy and I,” she went on, her voice dropping into 
the slow, low accent of provincial inflection. “Oh, yes, 
we certainly are great friends! Saffy taught me to walk 
and talk and cook, too. It took her a long time, though, 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 143 

to teach me to make rolls. You see, it’s heaps more 
difficult than one ever dreams. You must make them up 
the night before and put them in a warm place to rise; 
and in the morning you must work them all over again 
and when they rise to just the very exact point you must 
put them in the refrigerator till you are ready to put them 
in the oven. It’s heaps of trouble—but I learned at last. 
Then—when I was a little girl she used to sing old darky 
songs to me. There is no music nearly so pretty and 
plaintive/’ 

“Did she teach you: ‘Is my name written there?’ ” 

She broke into a merry laugh. “Where in the world 
did you hear that?” 

“Calla Lily charges her battery with it for wash day.” 

“Saffy sings much better than Calla Lily. You must 
get her to sing: ‘Wheel in the middle of a wheel.’ ” 

“Indeed I shan’t. Calla Lily once a week is enough 
of that form of music for me. By-the-way, will you 
play for me after dinner? I listen in the mornings and 
never hear you now.” 

“Mother said it might disturb you so early in the 
morning. She has a horror of being a troublesome 
neighbor.” What consideration! Have I stumbled into 
the ideal community? 

I told her that she need not give that a thought as Sap- 
phira beating biscuits obliterated all other sounds, and 
that besides, I could wake up to music or go to sleep to 
music, and sometimes sleep through it—all with a sense 
of deep enjoyment. “And as for that, there is a noise 
over my bedroom that is giving me a great deal of annoy¬ 
ance.” I told her of the sound in the attic and was 
surprised to see her expression change sharply. 


i 4 4 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“That is very strange,” she said, in a lowered voice. 
“The darkies have always said that house was haunted. 
Mother and I, of course, laugh at the idea; so did Miss 
Claiborne. You really do hear something unusual?” 

I went into details aboqt it until Mrs. Bruce came out 
and announced dinner. During the meal we did not re¬ 
turn to the subject, and after we left the table, Rose went 
directly to the piano and played for half an hour or more. 
I can’t help marvelling at her music; it is so exceptionally 
good. I have never heard anyone except Paderewski 
who gets the same effect she does, a combination of tech¬ 
nical perfection and emotional expression. As a rule 
professional musicians lose sight of this latter quality in 
their efforts to attain the former. She played the Tone 
Poems of Grieg with charming delicacy, as a constrast 
Rachmaninoff’s Prelude with the proper dignity, a Chopin 
Nocturne, and finally ended with the Valse Triste. There 
is something about valse rhythm, when handled by a 
master composer, that appears to me the most perfect 
form of musical expression. In it one can put all the 
passion, all the joy, all the pathos of life, and the rhythm 
gives it a more intimate appeal than any other tempo. 
I am sure Puccini realizes its emotional power, for he 
uses the three and six beat more than any other. I men¬ 
tioned this to her; she did not know his music. 

“You don’t know Puccini!” I exclaimed. 

“No. I have never heard grand opera.” 

“You mean you don’t know Boheme and Tosca and 
Butterfly?” 

She shook her head wistfully. 

“I’m going to order the scores for you at once. 
You’ve missed half of life.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 145 

“Madame Butterfly is going to be given here next 
month.” 

“Here ? Impossible! How could they give it here ?” 

“A travelling company from New York. It will be 
Cottonville’s first experience in grand opera. It is to be 
given in English. Fve been dreaming about it for 
months—ever since I heard it was coming.” 

“Then I’ll give a theatre party—you and your mother 
and Colonel Morancey. What do you think of that?” 

“I think it would be wonderful.” 

“Of course it will not be well done, it can’t be; but it 
will be enjoyable to you as a first experience.” 

Her fingers were idling over the keys, drifting from 
one chord into another, her eyes lowered to her hands. 
In her pose was something almost sad, accentuated by 
her use of minor chords. 

“It must make you very happy to have seen all you 
have,” she said slowly. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Why?” 

“Because if you haven’t pleasant thoughts, I mean if 
your thoughts are uncomfortable, you can throw them 
away and think of something delightful y9*1 have seen.” 

“Surely you don’t have unpleasant thoughts.” 

She lifted her head and smiled, a sad, brave little smile. 
“Of course not—only when I think of my music pupils.” 

The girl is unhappy about something, and hang it all, 
it worries me. It is such a bore to be too sympathetic; 
one invariably burns one’s fingers trying to help others. 
I am such a chump. Here I am letting her expression, 
just because it is wistful, soften my attitude towards her, 
when this morning I had fully made up my mind to treat 
her as I felt she deserved. 


146 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


Colonel Morancey broke in on our interview, for¬ 
tunately, before I had let the sympathetic attitude soften 
me too much. He had called at my house, but had had 
great difficulty in getting any response at the door due to 
the state of excitement Ananias and Sapphira were in 
over the arrival of the flivver. 

Rose clapped her hands gleefully over this—at times 
she is exactly like a child—and insisted that I should take 
them all over at once to see the automobile, having heard 
so much of the intended purchase that she felt as if it 
were already a personal acquaintance; so all of us, in¬ 
cluding Mrs. Bruce, went over to my house by way of 
the short cut through the hedge. We found the house 
deserted, but, led by Colonel Morancey, finally came upon 
Ananias and Sapphira and even the dignified Perkins 
gathered in a group expressive of silent admiration before 
the gleaming new flivver. Ananias’s expression was sug¬ 
gestive of some old patriarch—or more a prophet, I think 
—who has not only at last arrived in the Promised Land, 
but has a goodly slice of it already in his hands; Sap- 
phira’s countenance was slightly less aggressive; though 
proud—even haughty—over the new possession, there 
was a suggestion of very grave doubt in her eyes. 

“How did it get here?” I exclaimed. “Surely you 
haven’t learned to drive it yet ?” 

Ananias gave me a withering glance. “Shucks, seh, 
hit ain’t nothin’ to dribe. De gem’man dat sold hit to me 
done learnt me all de tricks dis mornin’.” 

“And you are going out by yourself?” 

“Dis afternoon, seh—ef yo’ doesn’t mind—wid 
Saffy.” 

“You, too, are going to risk your life with him?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 147 


She gave me a worried look, half ashamed, half fear. 
‘Tse studyin’ Tout hit, seh. I’se been a-libin’ so long wid 
dat nigger dat hit don’t seem de good Lawd intentioned 
him to die by hisself. Yes, seh, I reckon I’se gwine wid 
him.” 

We all admired the little motor, particularly on their 
account and some on its own, for it was very spick and 
span in all its untouched varnish and nickle. Colonel 
Morancey pronounced its lines perfect; Rose said she had 
never, never seen anything so precious; and Mrs. Bruce 
admired the lamps extravagantly. 

“And how do you find it, Perkins?” I asked, as so far 
he had stood to one side in dignified, aloof silence. 

“A capital bit of work, sir. I should say a consider¬ 
able improvement on those French flivvers—a bit better 
in details, sir.” 

This extended the grin on Ananias’s face from ear to 
ear. We all congratulated him, agreed that the flivver 
was a great bargain, and promised years of diversion. 
He bowed his thanks in courtly fashion, almost bursting 
with pride; but Sapphira saw us all leave without speak¬ 
ing a word, her eyes at pne moment on the gleaming 
motor, at another on the ground. I verily believe she 
was fully convinced that her last day had come and was 
trying to prepare herself to meet it bravely. 

Straggling back through the flower garden we came 
to the front of the house, where I called Mrs. Bruce’s at¬ 
tention to the attic window and explained to her the di¬ 
vision of the room and also the strange noise I heard at 
night. Colonel Morancey and Rose stood just back of 
us listening. “The Colonel,”—I have fallen into the 
habit of addressing him this way as everyone else does 


148 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“insists that it is my imagination. Do I look like a 
man of imagination, Mrs. Bruce?” 

“I should hope so!” Rose cut in. 

“What do you mean by that?” I turned towards her. 

“Only terribly tiresome people have no imagination.” 

I bowed, and found Mrs. Bruce observing me through 
her sweet eyes. 

“Yes, you have imagination, Pm sure. But I hope 
not enough to imagine noises at night; that would mean 
nerves.” 

The Colonel laughed unusually loud, almost boister¬ 
ously. “I know what we’ll do with him. He thinks he 
hears a noise; I’m sure he does not. Now—let’s all use 
our influence on him and say he will not hear the noise 
tonight.” 

“Very well—try that; and tomorrow I’ll tell you the 
result.” 

“Will you play fair?” Rose put in again, quite ir¬ 
relevantly. 

“I beg your pardon; have you ever found me doing 
otherwise ?” I answered with some dignity. This seemed 
to amuse her extraordinarily, and she continued giggling 
after the Colonel and Mrs. Bruce had turned towards the 
gate. 

“I’m so glad I amuse you,” I said, “even if I am un¬ 
conscious of the humor I create. Is my ‘playing fair’ 
so ridiculous?” 

“No; but I’m inclined to doubt eavesdroppers—cer¬ 
tainly am.” 

“It’s not half so criminal as gossiping.” 

“I should think not! That’s unpardonable.” 

“Interesting, though!” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


149 


“You think so ? I detest it!” 

“Then why indulge in it?” 

‘ I?” She stopped and had the audacity to look me 
squarely in the eyes; and without the flicker of a smile. 
“I don’t know what you mean!” 

“Your talk with Sapphira was not gossiping, I sup¬ 
pose?” 

“Of course not! Saffy always tells me everything— 
and I tell her everything. We’ve always done it.” 

“A woman’s way of getting out of a predicament!” 

She debated this; at least we walked a few steps in 
silence. 

“I believe I’m glad you heard what Saffy said,” she 
finally brought out. 

“Ah, now you’re angry and retaliating because I ac¬ 
cused you of using the usual methods of your sex!” 

She colored a little. “How horrid of you to say that! 
Now I shall tell you why I’m glad you heard. It was 
because it’s always good to know what others think of 
us; it keeps us from getting too conceited.” 

“In other words, you think I’m conceited?” 

“I didn’t say so.” 

“You inferred it.” 

She shook her head and let a slow smile curve her lips. 

“Would you really like to know why I’m glad you 
heard Saffy?” 

She watched my face with a disconcerting openness. 

“Would it be worth while?” 

Her smile broadened at my indifference. 

“Indeed it would. I believe it would make a great 
improvement.” 

This was preposterous; there are limits even to jesting. 


1 5 o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

Still, I wanted to know what she was driving at. 

“What?” I demanded, almost fiercely. 

“If you would cut it off.” With this she ran to over¬ 
take her mother and the Colonel who had already reached 
her gate. I turned back furious. I know I am not con¬ 
ceited in the least, and she had no excuse for saying it, 
even if I were. Of course I have self-respect and con¬ 
victions, like any other person of any intelligence what¬ 
ever, but that is quite different from conceit. I wonder 
what made her say it. Most likely it was her desire to 
hit back after my attack on her argument, and not having 
anything clever to say, took it out in a nagging remark. 
I have often noticed that women use this form of annoy¬ 
ing a man who has proven his intellectual superiority. 
Poor, defenceless, inferior creatures! They have to hit 
back in some way, and if it is stupid and meaningless, 
one should not cavil too much. 

I went up the walk unconsciously twirling the offended 
appendage. I would suffer the tortures of Saint Sebas¬ 
tian before I would cut it off now. 

The Colonel and I made a number of visits this after¬ 
noon and, thank heaven, I have at last met some people 
who are on the right side of seventy. I had about come 
to the conclusion that my associates here were all to be 
in the twilight period. 

We called first at an old brick house built directly on 
the street, and were admitted by the daughter of the 
house. After I was presented and conducted to the 
“parlor,” the Colonel asked for the “old folks” and was 
told he would find them in another room. In the mean¬ 
time the young woman and I sat down to talk and I 
found her easy in conversation and rather entertaining, 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


151 

indeed much more interesting than the young women I 
have met in France. She was well read and kept topics 
changing with a facility that was almost breathless. 
Strange to say, the all-important subject of the War was 
not mentioned once—I mean the Civil War, of course— 
so I gather the younger generation are letting it pass for 
things of the moment. This experience was repeated at 
four or five houses. In each case the door was opened 
by a member of the family, usually the daughter of the 
house, with whom I was left to talk while the Colonel 
sought the parents. There was a spirit of cordiality 
everywhere; indeed most of them gave me the impres¬ 
sion that I was intimately known to them, and that they 
had been impatiently awaiting my arrival. For fear that 
this might also be constructed into conceit on my part, I 
shall add that I do not take this as personal, only a cus¬ 
tomary expression of cordiality which these people ac¬ 
tually appear to feel. 

I found more form at the Shacks. A negro butler 
opened the door and ushered us into a drawing-room not 
badly furnished, though a little overdone and mixed in 
style. A grand piano of mahogany, some Louis XV 
chairs, several palms, a large piece of imitation tapestry, 
tall lamps with chiffon shades, several Kermeshaw rugs; 
—all gave an effect that was not unpleasant. The library 
beyond was done in what I find is called “Mission/’ the 
woodwork and furniture of dark oak, and much display 
of leather cushions and art nouveau curtains and table 
covers and lamp shades. It is somewhat dingy and a 
sort of Morris idea fantastically developed. The two 
girls were well dressed in semi-evening frocks, and be¬ 
gan at once discussing Paris with me. t They had been 


152 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

there only last year and had done the regulation tourists 
things, having probably spent ten minutes in the Louvre 
and three hours at the Folies Bergere. However, one 
of the consoling things about them was that they ap¬ 
parently know as little about the Civil War as I do. 
So far as the late war goes, they are fairly conversant 
with it; and gave me for the first time some insight into 
what it had meant in this community, for it seems that 
they had Red Cross circles, community drives and had 
even sent a fairly good quota of young men to training 
camps—though only very few had got to Europe. This 
was almost the first time I had heard the recent war 
mentioned. 

The Colonel confided to me that he had timed our 
visits so as to arrive at the Archers’ at a moment when 
they would invite us to remain for supper. Sly old 
devil! Yet, from what I gather, this is the custom here 
on Sunday—to invite anyone who is calling at the time, 
to remain to supper. Dr. Archer proved to be a physi¬ 
cian; a gentle old man with reddish hair, spectacles, and 
a flowing beard of the eighties. He has the largest fam¬ 
ily I have ever encountered. There were daughters ga¬ 
lore, ranging from twenty to thirty years, and an army 
of young boys, all of whom welcomed me with hearty 
hand-clasps and the most distinctive accent I have heard 
here. Mrs. Archer is the ideal mother of such a family, 
with a capacious bosom and stomach, and grey hair 
parted in the middle and spectacles pushed back. Before 
supper I saw her go into the dining room, which was 
visible through sliding doors, put on a large apron, which 
she kept on the rest of the evening, and overlook the 
table. We went in pell-mell after she had tapped a bell, 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


153 


and it was decidedly amusing and very homelike, though 
recalling, on account of the size of the family, one of 
those old-fashioned huge tables d'hote at a Swiss resort. 
I couldn’t have been more at home if I had been one of 
the sons. After supper the boys played games in the 
hall, while the rest of us sat round in a circle and listened 
to the Colonel and the Doctor talk. 

I am mortified to say that I made another gaffe, and of 
course it was on this infernal War question. The Colonel 
had announced that I had begun to study the history of 
the Civil War. 

“Indeed!” said the doctor, his warm smile deepening 
appreciably, “how far along are you?” 

“Only to Sumter,” I answered glibly. “The first shot 
has been fired.” 

“And do you know by whom?” 

“Yes,” I said, proud of my certainty. “By the Con¬ 
federates.” 

This was greeted by an outburst of laughter, during 
which I’m sure I blushed furiously. 

“Wasn’t it?” I stammered. 

“Of course,” he silenced the others when he saw my 
confusion. “I mean the man.” 

What a foolish detail! “No—my history did not give 
his name.” 

“Well—he pulled the first trigger and the last—so you 
ought to know about him. His name was Edmund 
Ruffin of Virginia, a large slave owner, who left his own 
state because she was so long making up her mind 
whether she’d secede or not. So he came over to South 
Carolina and told ’em at Charleston that the only way 
to make Virginia come over to our side was to strike the 


154 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

first blow—then she’d come quick enough. You see, 
we’d already demanded the surrender of Fort Sumter,— 
had ’em in a state of siege—though we knew well enough 
that Major Anderson had got word from Washington 
to hold out till a shipload of provisions got to him. We 
put it up to Anderson and he turned down all our de¬ 
mands for surrender. Then General Beauregard ordered 
our nearest battery to open fire. The commandant, when 
he received this order, picked out Ruffin and told him he 
could have the honor of the first shot. I met him once 
in the campaign of the Wilderness and his eyes still lit 
up when he told us about the flight of that first shell.” 

The Doctor told it with as much relish as the redoubt¬ 
able Mr. Ruffin must have done. 

“And the last shot—when did he fire that?” 

His expression changed sensibly. “It was when he 
heard of Lee’s surrender at Appomattox and the loss of 
our cause. ‘I can’t survive the liberties of my country!’ 
he cried, and loaded a double barrel shotgun, pulled the 
trigger with his toes, and blew his head off.” 

The old fellow dug out a large silk handkerchief and 
mopped his face. He evidently relived the scenes as he 
recounted them. 

“General Lee interests me immensely,” I was unfor¬ 
tunate enough to continue. “It seems he was placed in a 
most uncomfortable position.” 

“Why?” 

“On account of being a West Point graduate.” 

“So were both Johnson and Stonewall Jackson.” 

“But to be offered the leadership of both armies; for 
I read that Lincoln had told Scott to offer him the active 
lead of the Union forces before you offered him the 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 155 

same position on your side. Then he said himself that 
he considered slavery a moral and political evil. And 
didn’t he say,” I rushed madly on, “that, ‘secession was 
nothing but revolution ?’ I should have thought his con¬ 
science must have worried him a bit, fighting on the side 
his sympathies were not with, and—” 

I stopped abruptly when I caught the expression on 
Doctor Archer’s face. He looked exactly as if he were 
going to break my neck, right there in the presence of the 
family. His face was white with rage and his eyes 
fairly blazed at me. 

“What in hell put that notion in your head about Lee 
not sympathizing with us?” 

I tried a conciliatory tone of voice. “I’m only quoting 
what I’ve read. Colonel Morancey indicated the books 
I should read. Surely my cousin’s library should be 
above reproach.” 

He grew calmer, and a ripple of relief went round the 
family circle; I think they saw the necessity of witnessing 
murder had passed. 

“That was the damned Yankee influence he got at West 
Point. Once among us, he saw we were right or he 
wouldn’t have fought on our side at all. Lee wasn’t that 
kind. Jeff Davis was a West Pointer too, and knew how 
to pick leaders; and his selection of our four great gen¬ 
erals is what made the world realize that we knew what 
we were about.” He drew a long breath and mopped his 
face again. “So don’t make such a crack again as say¬ 
ing that Robert E. Lee didn’t sympathize with the South¬ 
ern cause, or folks round here will be asking me to treat 
you for brain fever.” 

I remained meekly silent the remainder of the evening; 


156 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


and at the door, in taking leave, the old Doctor held my 
hand for a minute and told me not to mind his heated 
words, that even after fifty years he couldn’t think of the 
War quietly, and to consider myself one of the family 
whenever I had a mind to break bread with them. 

In looking back over the afternoon and evening, now 
that I am in my room, I find I have a real liking for al¬ 
most everyone I met. There is a simplicity about all of 
them, a quiet happiness or contentment, call it what you 
will, that gives them a certain charm. Of course they 
are all provincial, but one does not get the feeling of 
being out of things as much as might be supposed. Their 
unaffected way of opening their own doors has something 
about it that strikes a sincere note; in fact, I think that is 
the word I am looking for—they are sincere. And good¬ 
ness knows there is no sincerity in large cities. ... I 
have about come to the conclusion that I shall remain 
here a while. It is showing me a side of life that is 
rather interesting through its novelty. . . . Perhaps I am 
conceited and don’t know it. I have lived alone so much 
during the last few years, and necessarily have been ab¬ 
sorbed with my own interests, so that I may have for¬ 
gotten the importance of others. Still—that gave her 
no reason whatever to say it. It was impertinent on her 
part; she doesn’t know me well enough. The whole 
affair was in shocking taste. The real truth of the matter 
is that she is the one who is conceited and resents my hav¬ 
ing found it out. I’m glad I’m going to the plantation 
tomorrow. It will prohibit any accidental encounter for 
a day or two. 

An unaccountable thing has happened. There is no 
sound whatever over my room tonight. 


CHAPTER IX 


April 19.- 

We left early Monday morning, the Colonel and I, for 
the plantation. The boat which was to carry us there 
was lying close to the street that runs along the bank of 
the river. On this street are several warehouses placed 
conveniently for the boats to land beside. The aspect 
that morning was quite commercial; a long line of 
“drays”—low, two-wheeled wagons drawn by mules, and 
driven by negroes—were loaded with plantation supplies, 
barrels of flour, sacks of meal, boxes of salt meat, and 
agricultural implements. Everything was carelessly 
dumped on the shore where a crowd of noisy, ill-smelling 
negroes shouldered it and carried it aboard the boat. 
These men, I find, are called roustabouts. The boat was 
an odd craft, long, narrow, and high, consisting of three 
decks, the second and third surrounded by a balustrade 
of elaborate design. The two awkwardly-high smoke¬ 
stacks were sending out clouds of smoke, and the noise 
of handling the freight, the chanting of the negroes as 
they carried the barrels aboard, and the calls of the dray¬ 
men made the scene one of bustle and excitement. It 
was much livelier than the departure of an ocean steamer, 
except that there was no hysterical crowd to wave hand¬ 
kerchiefs to departing friends. 

The Colonel and I sat down on the upper deck, and 
when the boat had pulled away from the shore, swung 
157 



158 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

completely round and got into midstream, he launched 
forth on a dissertation upon the river which lasted the 
greater part of the day. While I heard the story of its 
earlier days, when boats raced from St. Louis to New 
Orleans with negroes and plantations put up as wagers, I 
viewed its level banks, a mere line of green on both sides, 
and found a certain majesty in it. It is impressively 
broad and silent and dreary in its solitude. 

We stopped at many landings, isolated spots where a 
store, a house for storing cotton, a few cabins, many 
negroes, and one or two white men were all that was to 
be seen. In the evening, after supper, we went up to the 
pilot house at the extreme top of the boat between the 
smokestacks. From there the river appeared grander, 
under the soft radiance of stars; and we remained there 
until the boat turned from the channel of the river and 
made for an inlet on one side, which it entered, pushing 
its way through a dense growth of willows that rose di¬ 
rectly out of the water. Once through this, a matter of 
an hour or more, the Colonel pointed out my plantation. 

Through the gloom I saw only a long line lying di¬ 
rectly along the water. This, the Colonel told me, was 
an artificial wall of earth, called a levee, which was built 
along the water front of the plantation to keep out the 
river when it rises in the spring;—exactly as the dikes 
keep the sea out of Holland. Beyond this levee I dis¬ 
cerned a one-story house surrounded by smaller buildings 
and several large barns; further on were the fields and 
distant line of forest. Some negroes with lanterns were 
at the landing and one white man, Mr. Smith, the plan¬ 
tation manager. He greeted me cordially, a hearty look¬ 
ing fellow of a powerful physique and a face burned red 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


159 

by the sun. His voice and eyes struck me at once as 
pleasant, and there was about him that calm and perfect 
poise that is so often the characteristic of people who live 
away from cities; I suppose it might be called the agri¬ 
cultural calm. He conducted us to the house, which 
proved quite clean and comfortable, though my bed 
turned out to be covered with a feather mattress which, 
on a warm night as it was, is conducive to restlessness. 
There was a cold supper on the dining room table, daint¬ 
ily appetizing after the food on the boat. Mr. Smith is 
married and has four children, and his wife had evidently 
gone to some trouble to prepare the refreshments. It is 
astounding to me to find, even in out of the way places 
like this, a constant appearance of daintiness such as was 
displayed on this table. In Europe one finds it narrowly 
confined to the upper classes, while here it seems to be a 
characteristic of the American people as a whole. 

The Colonel poured out an alarming amount of 
whiskey, explaining that it was old stock, and drank it 
straight down. I took mine mixed with water, while 
Mr. Smith followed the Colonel’s example; then we sat 
down and ate with a relish. Mr. Smith informed me I 
was to be up at four the next morning—the plantation 
bell near my window would keep me from sleeping longer 
—to accompany him on a ride over the place. After 
this he left us; and the Colonel immediately filled another 
glass with whiskey. I was interested to see how much 
he could manage, this being an accomplishment I had not 
observed before. I might as well confess that I hoped 
he might get mellow enough to tell me about that secret 
conference in my back yard. 

“Young man,” he began amiably, smacking his lips 


i6o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


over the last drink and pulling out a long cigar, “this is 
the big part of your inheritance. How d’you like it? 
Some years it’ll make you thirty thousand dollars clean 
cash; other years it won’t make you a damned cent.” 

“In that case I should call it an unreliable investment.” 

“The most bothersome kind of property a fellow can 
have; only, when it pays, it pays. There’s no joke about 
that. I reckon it’s worth worrying over.” He had 
dropped into an unpolished form of speech hitherto un¬ 
used with me and possibly the effect of liquor. 

“What makes the years vary so?” 

I shall never cease to regret that question, for it neces¬ 
sitated my listening for an hour and a half to an explana¬ 
tion of farming principles, covering how to plant cotton, 
cultivate it, gin it and market it. Summed up, the dif¬ 
ference is due to the river overflowing the land and the 
exigencies of the seasons. But the Colonel can’t epitom¬ 
ize—he must revel in detail. By the end of the disserta¬ 
tion he had drunk four glasses of whiskey and was 
beginning to show it. He looked rather handsome in his 
cups; his face was flushed, his eyes sparkled, and his dis¬ 
ordered hair, which he continually rumpled with his 
hand, gave him a rather dashing appearance. He made 
me think of a cavalier of olden days, out for conquests 
and snapping his fingers at obstacles. 

When I rose to go to bed he held out a detaining hand. 

“No—you can’t go yet. I’m going to tell you some¬ 
thing ’bout myself. Sit down.” 

I sank in a chair beside him, while he took more 
whiskey, ran his hand through his hair, and gave me a 
benevolent smile. 

“What d’you think of Rose?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 161 


I stammered over my answer; the question was such 
a surprise. 

“I—I admire her very much.” I had to say it; he 
expected it. 

He gave a half suspicious, half humorous glance at me. 

“Well—mighty glad you do—but I don’t want too 
much of it. Just remember not to go too far—I’m go¬ 
ing to marry her myself.” 

I rose abruptly. It was plain the whiskey was telling 
on him. Once more his hand went up protestingly. 

“Sit down!” His voice thundered on the stillness of 
the house. “There ain’t a bit of use in your getting 
huffy about it. I just wanted you to know how the 
matter stands. D’you see?” 

I nodded, still standing. 

“D’you like her very much?” 

“You mean—am I interested in her?” 

“Damn it—I mean are you falling in love with her?” 
His fist came down on the table. 

“Not in the least.” 

This appeared to reassure him; though it did not termi¬ 
nate the conversation. Once more he indicated a chair 
and this time I sat down. 

“It’s just as well you aren’t falling in love with her. 
Living next door, and all that, might have brought on 
something. I’m glad to get that cleared up. Yes—I’m 
going to marry her this autumn—in November. Didn’t 
you tell me you were an architect?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I’m going to get you to build us a house. She 
—Rose—has selected the site already. Now—when can 
you get to work?” 


162 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I said we would have to talk that over more definitely. 
This seemed to switch his thoughts back to her. 

“Pretty girl—ain’t she?” 

“Very.” I had to agree once more. 

“Knew her father and mother before they were mar¬ 
ried;—done a lot for ’em all my life. D’you know what 
Pve done for ’em?” 

I shook my head. 

“Pve saved ’em from being paupers. Five years ago 
they’d just about come to the end of their row, Rose and 
her mother; everything had been eaten up. The hard 
part of the whole thing was that the old lady, Mrs. Bruce, 
has so much damned pride that nobody could help her; 
she wouldn’t have it. Then the time came when she 
couldn’t pay the taxes on that little box of a house she 
lives in; it was going to be sold under the hammer. 
Well, sir, everybody in town, I mean all the old crowd 
who had known her in her prime, wanted to do something 
and she wouldn’t have any of it. She’d go to the poor 
house before she’d take a penny from us! You see, she 
didn’t have any relatives living and she didn’t consider 
friends had the right to give her money; it was blamed 
impudent in them to offer it. . . . Your relation, Miss 
Claiborne, was the one who put me up to what I did. 
She said I must talk to Rose about it, and I did. Miss 
Claiborne brought her down to my office one day and we 
told her exactly how matters stood. Her mother hadn’t 
told her a word about it. At first she wouldn’t believe it 
until I showed the ad in the paper stating that the house 
was to be sold under the hammer. ... Of course she 
cried—like her heart would break; then she got quiet 
and listened to us. I told her that Miss Claiborne and I 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 163 

had a plan to put a job up on her mother and fool her 
into thinking we had got hold of some money that was 
due her. She took in all I said and then refuted the 
idea, saying she could teach music and support her mother 
that way. We humored her in this fancy for a while, 
then Miss Neppy told her that her mother must be com¬ 
fortable to live longer; she was too old to put up with the 
hardships of life. ... At last we broke through her 
pride by breaking into her heart. After that it was all 
easy sailing. I arranged a plan by which Mrs. Bruce was 
to get back part of an old plantation which we were to tell 
her had been illegally taken from her; Rose was to give 
music lessons which would bring in something, and when¬ 
ever funds were needed she was to come to me. . . . She 
was just fifteen then, and the prettiest little thing I ever 
laid my old eyes on; always half serious, which made her 
look older. Well, just before she went out of my office, 
I saw she was thinking hard on some subject; finally it 
came out. She wanted to know how she was going to 
pay me back for so much kindness. I laughed and told 
her I did it through love for her and her mother; that I 
wanted nothing in return but her happiness. She stood 
a long time thoughtful over this, then looked up at me 
with those steady dark eyes of hers. T will do whatever 
you say/ she said. ‘You have saved my mother. There 
must be some way for me to show appreciation!’ ‘How 
old are you now—fifteen?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘Then, when you’re 
twenty, if you still feel this way, suppose you marry me.’ 
I said it as a joke and laughed; but she took it seriously. 
‘Would that show my appreciation?’ she asked. Again 
I laughed at her way of taking it. ‘It would be paying 
me back much more than I deserve.’ At this she put her 


164 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


hand in mine and looked me squarely in the eyes: ‘Then 
—when I am twenty—I will marry you.’ . . . Well— 
there you are. With me it began as a joke, but now that 
she has grown into a woman, and I see how beautiful 
she is, I find the idea has got hold of me; it’s the big 
part of my life now. I’m worse than I was as a kid. 
The girl has me in the hollow of her hand. I’d do any¬ 
thing under the sun she asked me to.” 

I sat silent through this recital, my thoughts reverting 
to the many little suggestions I had observed in her man¬ 
ner which now were so clearly explained. As for the 
old fellow, I could not blame him; anyone might have 
done the same. He confessed himself that what had at 
first been a joke had become serious and taken hold 
of him; and now he was determined to hold her to her 
promise. On the whole, he is not a bad sort, and I sup¬ 
pose there are many women who would be glad enough 
to marry him; but for a girl of twenty—surely never! 

“You say you would do anything she asked you; does 
she ask you to do many things?” I couldn’t help ask¬ 
ing him. 

He looked up quickly from his reclining position. 
“She used to; lately—no. I don’t think she has asked 
me for a thing in the last year. I had to beg her to 
accept that piano.” 

“Her mother knows she is going to marry you?” 

“Of course. She’s very happy over it.” 

I hesitated, then went on: “Suppose she should ask 
you to release her from this marriage; would you do it ?” 

He laughed. “I don’t think she’ll ever do that.” 

“But—if she did—would you release her? 

He frowned at me, drew himself up rather pompously 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 165 

and poured out more whiskey. “A Southern gentleman 
would not put a question like that to another.” 

“I am not a Southerner—and I do put the question.” 

He rose and shot an angry glance at me. “I mean your 
question is an insult to my sense of honor. No gentle¬ 
man would consider holding a woman to such a promise 
against her wishes.” 

On the threshold, to which I had to help him slightly, 
I put one more question: “Aren’t you hiding some¬ 
thing from me, Colonel?” I purposely put this with an 
amiable smile. 

“What’re you talking about, my boy?” He was pretty 
well in by this time. 

“The noise in the house. You know about it, I’m sure. 
What in the mischief is it?” 

“D’you hear it last night?” 

“No.” 

“Then go to bed and forget it. I’ve fixed it so you 
won’t hear it any more.” 

I did go to bed; but I tossed from one deep valley of 
the feather mattress to the other and was just dozing off 
when a noise—which made me think I was back once 
more before Verdun—threw me literally on to my feet 
in the middle of the floor. It was the plantation bell 
calling the laborers into the fields. 

When I had dressed and gone outside I found Mr. 
Smith awaiting me with two horses. We cantered 
through the grey dawn along paths that divided the fields 
into sections. In every direction extended level, fresh 
green vistas of flourishing cotton plants about knee high. 
One field followed another in seemingly endless con¬ 
tinuity ; and when I returned to the house at seven 


166 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


o’clock it was with an impression of a vast green area ab¬ 
solutely unbroken in its monotony. 

How Mr. Smith saw individuality in each section of 
ground, I can’t imagine; yet he pointed out this field and 
that, saying the cotton was doing better in one, badly in 
another, that this section of ground needed draining while 
another was drying up. I saw no difference in any of 
them. Negroes were dotted about the fields; the men in 
ragged trousers and shirts, the women’s heads tied up in 
gayly printed handkerchiefs—all of them with plows and 
hoes and queer five-pronged implements drawn by mules 
and called cultivators. 

After breakfast I was taken over the plantation store 
and shown the stock of merchandise that was sold to the 
negroes at a great profit, according to Mr. Smith. Then 
the Colonel, entirely his former, suave, proper self, drove 
with me over another section of the fields until it was too 
hot to remain longer in the open. Mrs. Smith made us 
comfortable on the front porch in rocking chairs, with 
deliciously cold lemonade and cake for refreshment. 
The four children appeared at twelve o’clock, coming 
from a one room cottage in a corner of the grounds 
which is their school house. Their governess, a young 
woman from Minnesota, spends the winter months there 
as no school is conveniently near. I found them a 
pleasant, wholesome family, full of the brawn and vigor 
of country life—and decidedly pleasant and cordial in 
their manners. 

After dinner—at noon, which is also an hour of rest 
in the fields—the Colonel and I drove fifteen miles 
through successive reaches of cotton fields and cotton¬ 
wood forests and came at last to a railway that landed 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 167 

us back in Cottonville about six in the afternoon. 
Ananias was at the station with the carriage, the horses 
surprisingly sleek with their tails platted and tied up as 
if they were docked. Ananias, himself, was in the new 
livery I had told Perkins to purchase for him. This last 
was too much for the Colonel and me and we could not 
restrain the laughter which Ananias’ mortification ac¬ 
centuated. The livery fitted him nowhere and his stoop¬ 
ing shoulders and utterly dejected expression made the 
whole effect that of a comic masquerade. 

“I tole Mr. Perkins sich a garb didn’t go on an ole 
nigger lak me,” he said, when he saw our amusement. 

“Yes—he ought to have known better. Take it off 
when you get home—and put on your old black coat. 
You are out of the picture that way.” 

I left the Colonel at his office and drove home in the 
twilight. Turning a corner into my street, I experienced 
a new sensation that was of more than passing interest, 
for I still have it, now that I am in my room. It was 
the feeling that I was getting back to a place I had known 
always and that meant more to me than any place in the 
world. It may have been the restfulness of the trees 
and the lengthening shadows of the twilight and the cer¬ 
tainty that a welcome awaited me from Sapphira, rein¬ 
forced by a good supper, that gave it such a trenchant 
appeal. Strange as it may sound, I found myself think¬ 
ing of it as my home! 

In this mood, I saw Rose walking alone and left the 
carriage to join her, impelled by curiosity to test the 
conclusions I had reached in regard to her the night be¬ 
fore. I was almost conscious of showing I knew more 
about her than I had the last time we met; and as for any 


168 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


more resentment towards her on account of her nagging 
remarks—all that has passed in sympathy for what she 
has gone through. 

She held out her hand with a smile of welcome. I 
like her smile; it is more with the eyes than the lips—a 
quickening sort of expression that has a certain subtlety 
in it. 

“Well—and did you like your plantation? Do you 
want to be a farmer?” 

“No—I think I prefer village life.” 

“How insulting!” she laughed. “To call our thriving 
city a village!” 

“Perkins’ name for it—not mine. I think I’d get 
lonely on the plantation. One must have a certain 
amount of association; only a genius can live alone and 
be happy.” 

We loitered along, drifting without effort into full 
accord with the twilight hour. 

“I’ve always thought country life makes us selfish— 
and intolerant, too,” she began, after a long silence. 
“As you say—we must have association. I know you’re 
going to laugh—but I’m heaps more sympathetic since I 
began giving music lessons. Listening to pupils strug¬ 
gling over scales has taught me worlds of patience—and 
I began to see how much more tiresome it is for them 
than for me.” 

“Of course—because you can think of something 
pleasant while they do the work.” 

“Thank you—I’m not such an indifferent teacher.” 

“If you insist upon being so frightfully conscien¬ 
tious ! . . . I ordered the Puccini operas for yo'u. Will 
you play them for me when they come ?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 169 

She nodded and thanked me. We were passing my 
gate and she called my attention to a cat that was seated 
before it as if waiting to be admitted. 

“That means good luck for you,” she said. “When a 
strange cat comes to you it always brings happiness.” 

We stopped and looked at the animal, quite the ugliest 
of the species I have ever seen. It was striped, grey and 
black, wretchedly thin and with a face that was violent in 
expression. I had the feeling, as I looked into its green 
eyes, that it might spring any moment straight for my 
throat. 

“I don’t think this cat would bring anyone good for¬ 
tune,” I commented. “It has a sort of Lucretia Borgia 
expression.” 

She laughed and we went on to her gate. To our sur¬ 
prise the cat followed us. 

“You see,” she said, “you have refused her and she 
has transferred her good luck to me.” She swung the 
gate open. “Come in, kitty.” 

The cat continued to circle in and out between my legs 
without acknowledging her invitation. 

“The happiness is for you—not for me.” She smiled 
wistfully and held out her hand. “I have welcomed it— 
and it will not come.” 

“Perhaps you have no need of it—perhaps you have 
more than your share!” 

The odd little smile was still on her lips. “And you 
I suppose—do need it. Will the luck be a return to 
Paris ?” 

“I haven’t thought of that lately.” 

Her expression was bright with a warmth I felt agree¬ 
ably. “I’m mighty glad to hear you say that, because— 


i;o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

because it shows me we are not so terribly uninteresting 
down here.” 

“Were you ever in doubt of that?” 

“With you—yes.” 

“Then the fault was mine.” 

She swung the gate to and leaned on it; then glanced 
at the cat. “You won’t refuse to take her in?” 

“You think it wise?” 

“I’m sure of it—especially as you have already found a 
name for her—Lucretia Borgia.” 

“Then—if she strangles me in my sleep—my blood 
will be upon you.” 

The cat actually did follow me home and walked into 
the house with the aplomb of the real owner; she even 
conducted me, with an accuracy aided by the scent of 
cooking food, directly to Sapphira’s kingdom. 

After a winning smile of welcome, Sapphira informed 
me that she had prepared a prune merveille in honor of 
my return. My heart sank at this news, for the previous 
Sunday I had tasted this insipid concoction of whipped 
eggs and prunes and found it atrocious. It is pre¬ 
eminently a lady’s dish. Besides—prunes are just like 
black alpaca; they stand for poverty. I turned to Lucre¬ 
tia Borgia to hide my chagrin. 

“This is my new house guest, Sapphira. She was 
waiting for me at the front gate. Judging from her ap¬ 
pearance, her journey has been long and eventful. She 
already has the freedom of the house; but will you 
be good enough to give her a hot bath and some 
food.” 

“Hmp! Yo’ doesn’t wash cats—dey washes dem- 
self. She sho are onery lookin’!” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 171 

Lucretia had taken a seat and was alternately glaring 
at each of us. 

“I neber seed sich a ugly cat! She’s plum starved!” 

“Then feed her—and get her fat. I won’t have any¬ 
thing round the house looking poor—except myself. 
You know, Sapphira, you said only fat people look 
prosperous.” 

I left them looking at each other; and there was an¬ 
tagonism in both pairs of eyes. 

That night at supper I found an enormous bowl of 
prune merveille placed before me for dessert. Sapphira 
brought it in herself, her face wreathed in smiles as she 
put it before me. Even if I had liked the detestable 
thing, the immense quantity would have killed my ap¬ 
petite. Left alone, I looked at it in dismay. I had to 
get rid of it in some way; and Lucretia Borgia, rubbing 
against my legs under the table, offered one solution of 
the difficulty—until I realized it would take ten cats ten 
days to eat so much of anything. They are proverbial 
Fletcherizers. 

This matter of having a soft heart is an infernal bore! 
In desperation, I piled half of the concoction on a plate, 
rose and went to the window with the full intention of 
throwing it on the lawn; then I thought of the discovery 
the next morning. I looked round for some place to 
hide it and finally hit upon the fireplace. There was a 
brass screen placed before it that successfully hid every¬ 
thing. I dumped the contents of the plate there and got 
back to my chair just in time to be prepared to look the 
part of a contented epicure when Sapphira entered. 

“Were hit good, seh?” she demanded, noting with sat¬ 
isfaction that half was gone. 


172 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Delicious, Sapphira! You are a great artist!” 

“Must I put whut’s left up fur tomorrow ?” 

“No—no! You and Ananias enjoy it. A dish like 
that should be eaten only once a month—and then on 
bended knee.” 

“Thank you, seh. Lawdy—now jest look at dat cat! 
She’s already smelt a mouse!” 

I turned and found Lucretia Borgia pawing at the 
screen. In a moment I had her by the neck and had 
thrown her into the pantry and shut the door. 

“Doesn’t yo’ want her to ketch mice, seh?” Sapphira 
exclaimed. “Dat’s all cats is good fur!” 

“Let her catch them in the kitchen—never in the 
dining room!” 

“But ef dere’s mice in de dining room de cat sho 
ought to be ’lowed to ketch dem!” 


CHAPTER X 


May ii- 

I have actually been here one month—an amazing fact; 
and to save me I can’t remember how the time has gone 
by; looking at it one way it seems years, again only a 
few days. 

The days have been so full of a loitering, balmy charm 
that I haven’t bothered about doing anything except en¬ 
joy the garden with its daily surprises, take long walks 
across the hills that surround the town and continue my 
reading of the Civil War. As my contentment increases, 
Perkins’ restlessness grows apace. I imagine he finds 
valeting me too trifling an affair, and just to please him 
I ordered some flannels the other day and a lot of summer 
things. He wants me to let him serve in the dining 
room instead of Ananias, whom he considers more of a 
disgrace than a joke; and he is always insisting that I 
abolish this shocking habit of having dinner in the mid¬ 
dle of the day, claiming that it robs life of all its dis¬ 
tinction—not his words but what he meant. He thinks 
I should have a motor and a saddle horse; in a word he 
wants me to maintain an establishment equal to the one 
my uncle had in France. Somehow, his suggestions 
have not appealed to me; it may be the influence of the 
climate, it may be pure laziness, but I find it pleasant to 
drift along without effort on the fragrance of these long 
green days. 

In the mornings after breakfast I usually put in an 
i73 



174 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

hour or two reading and smoking—with a greater tend¬ 
ency towards the latter. Just now I am in the midst of 
the Campaign of the Mississippi Valley which is particu¬ 
larly interesting on account of its proximity. Miss Josie 
wants me to go with her to Vicksburg and spend the day 
in some sort of a memorial park that has been built there. 
Having been there during the siege she is anxious to 
give me her personal reminiscences on the spot. How¬ 
ever I’m saving that until cooler weather; though no 
matter what the temperature might be, I’ll wager her 
story will be right off the gridiron. 

An odd thing in connection with my reading is that al¬ 
most every time I open one of these old books I find one 
or two one hundred dollar bills in them. This surpasses 
any bookmarking that I have ever encountered. My im¬ 
pressions of cousin Penelope grow apace. 

In the late afternoon I am again on the veranda; and 
have fallen into the habit of watching for Rose, return¬ 
ing home from her music lessons. One has to be amused 
in some way and she plays so well that it often serves to 
pass away an hour or two. I find myself much more 
sympathetic towards her since I heard Morancey’s story 
—an attitude which makes me overlook and even like 
characteristics in her which at first annoyed me. It is 
only her provincialism, accentuated by the adoration of 
the three or four people near her, that made her irritating. 
As a matter of fact, her honey is not showing its alloy 
of fennel and rue these days; indeed, it now seems rather 
more made up of the sweetness of violets and hyacinths 
and jessamine. So when she passes I generally join her 
and follow her into the little cottage which is always so 
fresh and tidy and full of the charm of woman’s pres- 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I 7S 


ence. She has put up new dimity curtains at the win¬ 
dows, ruffled at the edges, and through their sheerness 
the afternoon light gleams on a flaming crepe myrtle tree. 
I love to sit in that simple little room and listen to her 
music and let my thoughts float about on the balm of 
spring. There is a certain pleasure in doing this that I 
have not experienced before. I hope it will last. 

She is playing Puccini a great deal; and the other day, 
when we were alone, she played that wonderful music 
from the second act of Tosca. It is superb in its drama; 
immense in its suggestion of impending tragedy. When 
she had ended with Tosca’s emotional appeal, she rested 
her hands on the piano and stared before her. 

“It is beautifully sad!” she murmured after a while, 
with that inflection that always touches me so strangely. 
“I wonder why sad things are always so much more 
beautiful than gay! Do you feel that way?” 

I nodded. “It’s because you and I have never known 
any real suffering. If we had we should prefer gay 
music. Jacques Montreux always said that sadness 
should not be permitted in art—that it recalled sorrows 
and made them live again.” 

“Still”—she was looking through the window at the 
crepe myrtle—“does it not makes us more sympathetic— 
this sadness in music?” 

“I dare say it does; but why bother about being sym¬ 
pathetic unless one is specially interested. It’s fright¬ 
fully troublesome. I’m trying a new theory lately— 
first making myself think I’m happy; and then imagin¬ 
ing everyone else is.” 

“But you know they are not!” 

I shot a glance at her, then looked away. There it 


176 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

was again—that look of fright, almost terror, in her 
eyes. I closed mine quickly to shut it out. I hate to see 
it so. Nothing has ever touched me like that look in 
her eyes. I know I’m foolish to dwell on it—and yet I 
do. I got up restlessly and threw my cigarette through 
the window—I am allowed to smoke in the house now 
that the windows are open—and when I came back she 
had left the piano and sunk down in a corner of the 
sofa; and the look was gone. 

“I think I know how you feel/’ she smiled reminis¬ 
cently. “I mean about unhappiness—and suffering. As 
a child I always ran away from it. Once Mother and I 
were sitting in this room reading, late at night. It was 
very still; you could have heard a pin drop. Suddenly, 
from a distance, came the sound of a carriage approach¬ 
ing at terrible speed. We were sure the horses were 
running away. Just as it got in front of our house 
there was a dreadful crash—a moment of silence—then 
the carriage went on down the street and the sound grad¬ 
ually died away. In the quiet that followed we suddenly 
heard a groan. My mother sprang up and told me to 
run out and help whoever had been hurt. I shall never 
forget my horror. For a second I imagined arms and 
legs and head lying in bits about the street. I begged 
Mother not to make me go out there. I even got down 
on my knees to her. I can hear her quiet reproof now 
—her look of shame for my selfishness—and her words: 
‘Are you afraid of helping one who is suffering?’ I got 
up and went out without another word. The night was 
pitch black. I stood on the gallery and listened. An¬ 
other groan came out of the darkness. I was literally 
scared to death—but I forced myself to call out: Tm 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 177 

coming to help you. Are you very badly hurt ?’ ” She 
stopped, leaned back on the sofa and laughed softly. 
“Guess what the answer was?” 

Of course I hadn’t an idea. 

“ ‘No’m—I ain’t much hurt—but I’se most skeered to 
death.’ It was the darky driver who had fallen off the 
box.” 

I joined in her laughter for she had told it immensely 
well. “And since then?” I asked. 

“Oh—I’ve faced heaps of suffering.” Her expression 
grew serious. “I have seen people in agony. I have 
witnessed death twice.” 

The idea of her knowing this side of life seemed in¬ 
congruous; she was so fresh and young and dainty. I 
felt a criticism against her mother for the first time in 
having let such things come into her life; and yet—good 
heavens!—think of the part that women played in the 
recent war!' 

“Why should you have the knowledge of such things 
forced upon you!” I said at last. 

“Mother said she had to face so much unprepared; she 
does not want me to be that way. She says I must get 
used to the idea of suffering—that it comes to us all.” 

“But—it must have changed you!” 

She glanced down at her hands which were folded 
in her lap; then looked up at me steadily: “I believe it 
has shown me my obligation to others.” 

“You knew that before. It was instinctive in you.” 

“Yes—but at times we are all thoughtless. I try 
mighty hard not to be. There is so much we can do— 
so many ways we can help others if we would only take 
the time to think about them. How serious we are 


178 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


today!” She jumped up with a smile. “And you are 
sitting there as if you expected to stay all the evening— 
while I have a cake to make for Sunday dinner.” 

At such times, when she is serious and calls to the best 
in me through sentiments which she expresses so simply 
and yet with a sort of sweet nobility, I am unaccountably 
drawn towards her. I catch myself watching her lips; 
they are so sensitive, so mobile, so somehow warm with 
emotion. Her eyes, too, change into deeper tones and 
glow quite charmingly. The attraction is all probably 
due to the fact that this is the first time I have ever had 
any association with an innocent young girl. Surely I 
never was permitted to see anyone like her—at least in 
this informal way—during my long years in Europe. 

That same afternoon I had gone out to the Veterans’ 
Home to meet Miss Josie; and while overlooking the 
building this trend of thought kept returning to me. 
Miss Josie, however, was too much absorbed to notice 
my preoccupation. My room—or I should say the 
Penelope Claiborne room, as proclaimed by a large brass 
plate on the door—has come out most successfully. As 
paper was strictly forbidden, I had the expanse of bare 
walls relieved by panels of white moulding. In each of 
these I have hung a colored print—one or two Greuze 
heads and a good copy of a Corot, passed upon by Miss 
Josie as being harmless though not nearly so suitable for 
old soldiers as the calendar type of beauty; by which she 
means, I have since found out, those florid lithographed 
advertisements sent out by manufacturers. Such art 
may be more sympathetic to old soldiers, but it shall 
never find a place in a room I have furnished. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


179 

Miss Josie and I stood in the centre of the room sur¬ 
veying the result, I critical, she sniffing. 

“Well—good or bad,” I said, “it’s done.” 

“Yes—and I reckon everybody in Mississippi’ll say 
it’s overdone.” 

“Even so—I have the satisfaction of knowing my in¬ 
tentions were good.” 

Miss Josie threw another glance about the room and 
then rested her eyes on me. “Precious little comfort in 
that! You’ve got to be old before you get over wanting 
praise. Now—I don’t give a picayune what they’ll say; 
but you—just suppose Rose Bruce said she thought this 
room was hideous!” 

“Why cite Miss Bruce as an example ?” 

“Because,” her bright eyes twinkled, “what she’d say 
would mean a whole lot to you.” 

I frowned. “I hope you aren’t going to set the gos¬ 
sips going in that direction. Miss Bruce is engaged to 
marry Colonel Morancey. The wedding is to be this 
autumn.” 

“Don’t I know that! Still—you spend all your time 
with her!” 

“Preposterous! I often go over to her house in the 
afternoon to hear her play. That’s because I’m fond of 
music—and she plays extraordinarily well.” 

The old lady looked at me critically. “Are you try¬ 
ing to fool me—or yourself? It isn’t so much music; 
it’s the natural attraction of youth. Young man—be¬ 
ware! You are on the verge of falling in love,” 

I laughed. “That’s quite absurd.” 

“Why?” 


i8o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


"Because—in the first place, I should never fall in 
love with a girl like Miss Bruce. She isn’t exactly the 
type of woman that would appeal to me—I mean as a 
wife.” 

"What sort would?” 

The necessity of answering such a question made my 
thoughts shoot back to the women I had known. 
"Frankly—the question is a bit vague,” I answered 
slowly. "I’m sure, though, the woman I would fall in 
love with would have to be a woman of the world—one 
who had seen life in all its cosmopolitan aspects—one 
who would be au courant in every meaning of that term.” 

Miss Josie sat down in the morris chair which had the 
place of honor in the room. "Sometimes,” she said 
acidly, "I think you are the biggest goose it has ever been 
my misfortune to meet; again I think you are just want¬ 
ing in every day horse sense; and then I attribute it all 
to your Massachusetts blood and later immoral associ¬ 
ations. On the whole, I feel mighty sorry for you; for 
that reason I overlook the utter bosh you talk. But if 
you can’t appreciate Rose—you are hopeless. That’s all 
I’ve got to say about it.” 

"I do appreciate her—immensely.” 

"Then marry her—and save her from that old satyr!” 

She said this so violently that I stopped a smile. 

"I don’t carry altruism that far. Besides I don’t want 
to marry—yet.” 

"It’ll soon be too late! Let me tell you something. 
You can talk all you please about the cosmopolitan women 
of the world variety—and that French word you used 
that I don’t know what it means—but all that’s pure 
nonsense. The kind of woman to make a man happy is 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 181 


one that will love him honestly, bear him children, cheer 
him up when he gets down in the mouth and be a good 
housekeeper. Rose would do all that—and heaps better 
than those butterflies you’ve got your mind so set on. 
But—God deliver me from being a matchmaker!” She 
got up energetically. “Let’s go look at the other rooms.” 

Ananias came out with the carriage to meet us and I 
drove the old lady home. She talked, all the way back, 
about the house-warming which is to be next week; the 
refreshments are to be furnished by the Daughters of the 
Confederacy, a certain number sending cakes, others ices. 
Twelve young women with historical pasts or ancestors 
are to serve the refreshments, while Miss Josie and her 
favorites are to form a reception committee—I among 
the number. The affair is going to be the climax of 
the old lady’s life—at least from a patriotic point of 
view. 

At her gate she held my hand and smiled at me, show¬ 
ing a gleam of softness which she tries to cover up— 
and succeeds exceedingly well as a rule. 

“Don’t mind my tirade against your marriage opin¬ 
ions,” she said. “Only—I do wish you’d think seri¬ 
ously about what I said. It would be nice to see you 
settled and getting rid of your foolishness. I’m kind 
of inclined to think you are worth it. No—don’t an¬ 
swer me back. Just go home and study over it.” 

May 20- 

Sapphira and Perkins and I spent all of yesterday ar¬ 
ranging the dinner which preceded my theatre party. 
Perkins made up the menu—he dearly loves doing this— 
and submitted it to me; then he brought in Sapphira to be 



182 that late unpleasantness 


consulted about the possibility of carrying it out. 
Originally it was: 

Potage aux Champignons 
Filet de Sole, Sauce Bearnaise 
Cotelettes d’agneau 

Poulet farci a l’Americaine. Salade Romaine 
Coeurs de Palmiers 
Peches Delicieuses 
Medailles de Parmesan 

When I read this to Sapphira, translating as I went 
along, her comments were far from reassuring. Fresh 
mushrooms were unheard of; bank perch took the place 
of sole; chops were easier except that most of the meat 
here comes from Chicago and is weeks, if not months, 
old—and I can’t get over the impression that it must be 
dangerous. Of course the chicken was just in Sapphira’s 
line, though vegetables “fur supper wuz a new wrinkle 
on her.” I explained that it was dinner and not supper, 
which she contested with smiling assurance was an im¬ 
possibility as it was to take place at night. She wanted 
to substitute her chef d’ceuvre, the prune abomination, 
for the peaches, which I put my foot down on at once. 
The cheese cakes had to be eschewed. In the end we got 
it settled with a final decision in regard to the soup, 
turtle being substituted for mushrooms, and Ananias was 
despatched to the country in search of the amphibious 
creature. Late that night he returned with one suitable 
for a zoological garden, judged from its size, which he 
put in a tub, covered with water and placed in full view 
of the kitchen window to guard against attempts at es¬ 
cape before the fatal hour—though this was quite un¬ 
necessary as Lucretia Borgia found the new arrival so 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 183 

absorbing that she did not leave the back yard until the 
execution was a fait accompli . 

The menu settled, I selected the china and silver I 
wanted used; and once more to Sapphira’s amazement I 
informed her that I wanted each course served separately. 
She wanted everything put on the table at once, with the 
exception of the soup and the ice. It was the first time 
I had been through the china cabinets with any thorough¬ 
ness and I am amazed at the number of beautiful things. 
There are some very well painted game plates, a quantity 
of sapphire-blue Bohemian glass, some old handsome 
plate and a dozen beautifully chased silver goblets. The 
tea and coffee service is of an intricate repousse design, 
made up of landscapes and waterfalls and foliage, which 
I was told came from Baltimore and was so popular with 
Southern families of a generation ago. The linen is 
good too. Altogether I need nothing, provided I stick 
to conservative methods, which are invariably much 
smarter. 

For decorating the table Sapphira brought out a most 
amazing piece of confiture; it was the half of a watermelon 
rind carved with figures which stood out in heavy relief. 
The whole thing had been cooked in syrup and put away 
in an air tight jar and was supposed to be used as a 
bowl filled with flowers. I complained that it would drip 
syrup all over the table; but Sapphira assured me it would 
dry by night and would look just like a big topaz—which 
in fact it did. Filled with lilies of the valley, it somehow 
recalled the Song of Solomon. 

That evening—I have acquired the habit of using the 
word in the sense of afternoon as everyone here does— 

I went over to hear Rose run over the score of the opera 


184 that late unpleasantness 

once more. She has fallen into the spirit of it wonder¬ 
fully and, after I had shown her the leading motifs, got 
remarkably telling effects. She played the opening music 
with dash; and the entrance of Butterfly—those broad, 
ascending, chromatic chords—she did immensely well; 
also the moonlight duet which recalls Grieg now and then 
—though one is always finding something reminiscent in 
Puccini’s music, an ingredient perhaps of its charm, for 
all charming things are reminiscent—just the mere mat¬ 
ter of remembering them creates a sort of self-flattery. 

I was pleased with the picture we made sitting about 
the table—Mrs. Bruce and Rose, the Colonel and I; the 
soft light from the candles was vastly becoming to every¬ 
one. The effect was quiet and restful, the atmosphere of 
an older day when one had time to chew one’s food, 
digest it and discuss one’s neighbor’s shortcomings. 
These days one has only time for the shortcomings. 
Mrs. Bruce looked as though she had stepped out of an 
old miniature, in a heavy black silk dress, a ruffled fichu 
and a bit of black velvet on which she wore an onyx and 
pearl brooch. Her delicate coloring and white hair com¬ 
pleted the illusion. The Colonel was quite impressive 
in evening clothes with an immense expanse of shirt 
front, gold studs and a narrow black tie; there is a pic¬ 
turesqueness about him at times that makes him quite 
distinguished. Rose was in white, a simple frock with 
a touch of old rose ribbon and a bouquet of lilies of the 
valley which I had sent her. She, too, fitted in perfectly 
with the picture with her lack of any pronounced fashion. 
At times she makes me think of one of the Greuze pic¬ 
tures I have hung in the Penelope Claiborne room—the 
original of which is in the Wallace collection; only she 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 185 

has more intellect than his faces show, though there is 
that same predominating sweetness and softness. 

It was still light out of doors when we sat down, so 
we had the blending of twilight and candlelight—always 
a poetic combination. The turtle soup was praised and 
the sauce bearnaise raved over; and when Perkins served 
the Madeira which I had found in the wine closet, the 
Coloners eyes beamed. 

“You have good taste in wine, sir,” he said, sipping it 
and showing an appreciation in his eyes. 

“Unfortunately I don’t deserve the compliment. I 
found it here; it is excellent though and very rare. The 
label was torn and all I could make out was 1789 Sol. 
I suppose it is real Soladon. I have a suspicion, Colonel, 
that you chose it.” 

He admitted with a pleased smile that my cousin had 
always trusted him to buy her wines—when such a thing 
was possible, he added. 

During dinner Mrs. Bruce asked: “How is your 
ghost coming on these days?” 

Before answering I glanced at the Colonel and found 
his eyes on me. “I don’t hear him any more. Probably 
he’s off on a vacation—or has taken to wearing rubber 
soles on his shoes. You see the Colonel promised me 
I should not hear him again.” 

“I said that?” He looked at me in great surprise. 

“Don’t you remember—on the plantation?” 

“You must be mistaken,” he insisted seriously. 

“Well—perhaps so. At any rate I don’t mind so long 
as he doesn’t continue his night promenades.” 

“I’m so sorry!” Rose put in. “It would have been so 
interesting to have a ghost as neighbor.” 


186 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Better as neighbor than house guest,” I replied. 
“But I feel as if I had quite enough ghosts in my house 
—with all these portraits of war heroes hanging round. 
That reminds me, I am making famous progress in the 
history of that time. I was reading last night about the 
prison at Andersonville. I was surprised to read that 
the commandant, Henry Wirz, was hanged after the war 
on account of his cruel treatment of Union—I mean 
Yankee—soldiers. Was it as bad as that ?” 

The Colonel cleared his throat; and I knew I had 
brought down on my own head a discourse that might 
last hours. 

“I reckon it was pretty bad,” he began. “Wirz, 
though, wasn’t a Southerner—he was Swiss. There 
were thirty-five thousand prisoners at Andersonville; it 
was a mighty unhealthy place and the whole situation 
was just about as bad as it could be. You’ve got to re¬ 
member we had hardly anything to feed them on and no 
clothes to give them and mighty little medicine. The 
Yankees haven’t got any right to say it was our fault; 
we couldn’t keep them from dying—and they did die 
like dogs, ten thousand of them. It wasn’t only there 
that things were so bad; it was all over the South. 
Lee’s army, for the last two years, was on quarter rations 
of rusty bacon and corn—and it was worse with our 
other forces. Sherman left us a starving wilderness 
after his march to the sea. No—we’re too much blamed 
for Andersonville. You can’t herd thirty-five thousand 
men in a pen with nothing to do and keep them well. 
We were willing to accept any terms for exchange of 
prisoners, we were anxious to get rid of them, but 
Lincoln wouldn’t have it.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 187 

It was nothing short of amazing the way he sat there 
talking with such deep feeling of a situation of more 
than fifty years ago; and with every bit as much intensity 
as we have shown in discussing the more recent horrors 
of prisoners in Germany. As a matter of fact, I am 
often puzzled when I listen to these discussions to know 
if they haven’t forgotten their own war and shifted to 
the one of my day ; there is often an extraordinary simi¬ 
larity in some of the incidents. 

We went on to the veranda after dinner where Perkins 
served coffee. I love this custom of sitting outdoors in 
the evening, especially in the delicious warmth of these 
spring nights, when the faces of one’s companions are 
vaguely distinguished and here and there the light of a 
cigar punctuates the darkness. One can talk so well in 
such surroundings; the question of managing one’s facial 
expression is put aside and the flow of words comes un¬ 
checked—often to be regretted on the morrow. 

Rose sat on the bench beside me; the others were 
across the veranda. We began talking about the recep¬ 
tion at the Veterans’ Home, Rose having been chosen 
by Miss Josie to assemble the young girls who were to 
serve as “tea girls.” I suggested that they dress in cos¬ 
tumes of the Civil War period, which pleased Rose and 
her mother immensely, the latter suggesting that it would 
be still better to wear their grandmothers’ and mothers’ 
frocks. It seems that almost all the families have pre¬ 
served some of these dresses. 

“Won’t you take me up in your attic to look for an 
old dress?” Rose asked, enthusiastic. “Miss Neppy told 
me there were lots of old dresses up there. I might 
find one I could wear.” 


188 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“And let’s find something for Miss Josie to wear too,” 
I said. “It seems to me she grows shabbier every day; 
yet I don’t know how to go about helping her.” 

Rose said she would select a dress for her and have it 
made, and that Miss Josie need never know I had paid 
for it. “I’ll tell her it’s an old one we found in the 
attic—and that you wanted her to wear it as it had be¬ 
longed to your cousin.” 

“If it’s modern, she’ll know it.” 

“Indeed she won’t. Miss Josie never bothered about 
the change in fashions.” 

We had such a good time making these plans that it 
was with regret that I saw Ananias drive up to take us 
to the theatre. 

The opera was surprisingly well given. The theatre 
is too small for grand opera, though “Butterfly,” with 
its modern setting, does not lose much in being viewed 
at close range. I enjoy opera most when it is given in 
an immense auditorium, for there is a certain grandeur 
to it that demands space to create the proper Illusion. 
One should see it with sufficient perspective; otherwise 
it is like looking too closely at a heroic group. I was 
interested to see what effect it would have on the audience, 
especially as I was told that it was a new experience to 
most of them. As a rule, they were attentive, as at¬ 
tentive as any audience I have ever seen. Whether they 
understood it or not is another matter—though Puccini 
is clever enough to write for a wide appreciation. He 
stirs with his drama and appeals through his melody. 

The Colonel went to sleep soon after the second act 
began; Mrs. Bruce showed fatigue; and Rose, sitting 
next to me, lived the whole thing. Several times her 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 189 

hand pressed unconsciously against my arm; and when 
the curtain fell on Butterfly waiting at the window, she, 
quite frankly and without restraint, wept. 

When it was over, she said nothing; we filed out 
silently. Even the box party which someone had given 
in honor of the Misses Shack and which comprised most 
of the young society element, failed to arouse her in¬ 
terest. When we found Ananias, who had been as 
soundly asleep as the Colonel, she said she wanted to 
walk home. So we left the others and strolled along 
slowly, her hand on my arm. 

The stars were shining with a sumptuousness equalled 
nowhere else, and the balmy air, the fragrance of flowers 
and fresh green things, and the quiet of Nature after 
the passion of Art—all blended into a mood that kept us 
both silent. I could see that it was an event in her life; 
and I believe I was almost jealous of the fact. I re¬ 
membered so well when I had seen grand opera for the 
first time and what it had meant to me; and it seemed 
so far, far away. I sincerely hope this is not a sign that 
I am reaching that age when one looks back upon youth 
as the happiest period; it is my theory that one should 
fight to keep that happiest period in the dim future. 

We were approaching her house before either of us 
spoke. 

“You don’t know how much it has meant to me,” her 
voice had a slight tremor in it. 

“I think I do. It meant that to me at first; it means 
a great deal to me still. Life must be a dreary thing to 
those who do not love music.” 

“It’s not only that,” she went on slowly, as if search¬ 
ing for words. “It has carried me off to some shadowy 


190 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


world.” She laughed softly. “I haven’t entirely come 
back yet. I’d like to stay there a little longer.” 

“It was not such a happy place. I saw you crying.” 

“That in itself was a joy—the joy of suffering.” 

“Imaginary suffering—yes. There is no joy in the 
real.” 

“There is—when one knows one is suffering from hav¬ 
ing done what was right.” 

“Ought doing right to make one suffer?” 

“Sometimes—it does.” 

We were at her gate. The door was open with a shaft 
of light reaching across the veranda. She held out her 
hand. 

“You have given me the happiest evening I’ve ever 
spent. Thank you.” 

She said it so sweetly and so sincerely that I lifted her 
hand to my lips and kissed it. In the dim light I saw a 
smile flicker across her lips; then a tear showed on her 
cheek. The next moment she had slipped through the 
door and closed it after her. 


May 22- 

I did not go to sleep for a long time that night. I 
lay awake for hours; then, realizing that it was useless 
to count one hundred, or take long breaths or do any 
other of the silly things one is told to do to woo Mor¬ 
pheus, I got up, lighted a cigarette and pulled a chair 
close to an open window. I sat there another hour try¬ 
ing to force my thoughts back to Paris and finding no 
very keen joy in reviewing those pleasures. In fact, they 
seem rather dim just now. Can it be possible that I am 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 191 

growing contented in this little town? Perish the 
thought! 

I turned away from the window, switched on a light 
and picked up a book. Of course it had to do with the 
Civil War. I read for a solid hour—all the way from 
the capture of Fort Henry and Fort Donelson down to 
the expedition against New Orleans—and I don’t remem¬ 
ber a sentence of what I read. I couldn’t seem to get 
rid of her words. “You’ve given me the happiest eve¬ 
ning I’ve ever spent.” What difference under the sun 
does it make if I have! I don’t see why I should re¬ 
member it so insistently. It is good to make others 
happy, it is quite the proper thing to do, all the saints 
and sinners, too, have written that it is a duty—so why 
should I bother about it? And if she finds doing right 
hurts—that is her affair, not mine. Besides, her theory 
is all wrong, for it is perfectly reasonable to maintain 
that the opposite would work, and say that doing wrong 
gives pleasure—which, after all, strikes me as being true. 
Confound these questions of right and wrong! 

Afterwards I went out on the veranda and sat down 
where we had been during the evening. I was getting 
fairly comfortable and tranquil, with the aid of several 
cigarettes, when Lucretia Borgia made a spring out of 
the darkness and landed squarely on my knees. Her 
pursuer glared out of the darkness, his eyes a lurid green, 
then turned disgustedly away. It took Lucretia’s hair at 
least ten minutes to resume its correct longitudinal posi¬ 
tion, though I believe, now that she was safe, she was 
rather proud of having been pursued. It must have been 
due to the darkness of the night—for no self-respecting 


192 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


tomcat would think of pursuing Lucretia if he saw her 
face. When she had purred her thanks, she pounced down 
on the floor and began sniffing at something white. I 
brushed her aside and found it was a spray of lilies of 
the valley. 

It’s preposterous for me to become sentimental—and 
I don’t think I really am—but I did take the spray of 
flowers back into my room that night. It is pity I feel 
for her—sincere, deep pity. She has temperament and 
honor—a hopeless combination that would make her un¬ 
happy under any circumstances. There is nothing I can 
do to help her and perhaps the best thing to do is to 
break off the slight intimacy that has sprung up between 
us. Still—if I’m going to stop on down here, I must 
have some associates that are a little less than seventy; 
and I enjoy her much more than anyone else I have seen. 
My reason is wobbly—which proves that I don’t know 
exactly what I want to do. 


CHAPTER XI 


May 25- 

This morning I found three more one hundred dollar 
bills lying loosely between the pages of a book. This 
makes twenty of these bills I have found in the same 
way. I am keeping them separately and hoping the 
amount will soon reach the sum the Colonel has ad¬ 
vanced me. In that case I could throw up the obligation 
of remaining and leave without debt at any time I choose. 
It is quite evident that he knew nothing of this strange 
habit of my cousin—and I have taken special pains to 
keep him from discovering it. 

After a stroll about town this morning I came back 
tired and thirsty and a bit out of humor, which increased 
when I found the front door wide open and no one 
visible. I rang and called and got no answer; then I 
went straight for the kitchen where the only signs of 
life were two pots on the stove comfortably hissing all 
to themselves. I continued out to the back yard and 
was just deciding that I had been deserted by all three 
servants, including Perkins, when a voice in the dis¬ 
tance caught my attention. It sounded like Sapphira’s, 
though under unusual strain and highly pitched. Listen¬ 
ing intently, I caught a resounding oath put forth by 
Ananias; this was followed by an unfamiliar voice, then 
once more Sapphira’s and finally all three together. The 
sounds drew me towards the high back fence where, 
with the help of a barrel, I looked over into the space 
before the barn and saw my two servants and a strange 
negro woman in what appeared to be a violent alterca- 
193 



i 9 4 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

tion. I attempted to unravel the difficulty by listening, 
but could make nothing out of it. When I made my 
presence known all three looked threateningly at me. 

“Come down heah, seh, quick!” Sapphira was the 
first to speak—and in a tone not the least bit beseeching; 
it was a command that I obeyed. A foreboding silence 
greeted my approach, each watching me as if I might 
make some unexpected attack. 

“What does this mean?” I broke out at last. “Don’t 
you know that the house is wide open and no one there! 
Anyone could come in and help himself to anything! 
What do you mean by this behavior?” 

This had no effect at all; I don’t think they even heard 
what I said; both appeared to be in a state of great excite¬ 
ment and breathed in loud gasps. 

“Will you please, seh, look at dat!” Ananias finally 
spoke. 

I looked in the direction indicated and saw, pushed up 
against the barn, the flivver; but a sadly different flivver 
from a few days ago. One mud guard was crumpled up 
as if it had been in battle, a door was hanging loose and 
the front axle was twisted to a most rakish angle—alto¬ 
gether the most decrepit looking flivver I have ever seen. 

“What under the sun happened? Did the train strike 
you ?” 

Ananias scratched his head and looked at Sapphira. 
“Hit happened dis way, seh. We wuz gwine down de 
hill ’fo’ de Court House an’ dis heah ’oman come long 
wid a cow.” 

“In de middle ob de street, seh,” put in Sapphira. 
“Not on de right side—whar hit wuz her business to be.” 

Here the strange woman came into action. “Whar 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


195 


hit’s jest as much ma right to be as hit wuz yores!” 

“An’ den, seh—dis is whut happened,” Ananias con¬ 
tinued. “De cow hit de ottermobil.” 

“An’ her leg wuz broke,” the woman put in. 

“An’ ma ottermobil—well, seh—jes look at hit!” 

At this the woman broke forth with explanations, 
gesticulations and such violent threats directed against 
Ananias and Sapphira that I felt it best to retreat to a 
safe distance. 

“Yo’ wuz speedin’—dat’s whut yo’ wuz doin’—an’ 
hit’s ginst de law! Ef yo’ don’t pay me right now fur 
dat cow—I’se gwine sue yo’ both—sho’s Gawd gibs me 
strength to do hit!” 

“Den do hit, nigger, do hit!” came Sapphira’s raised 
voice. “Who’s gwine keep yo’ from doin’ hit? But 
yo’ might as leaf git used to not gittin’ no money fur 
dat cow—so help me Gawd an’ all his ’postles!” 

“I’ll take de case ’fo’ de Jedge!” 

“Take hit, nigger, take hit!” 

“I’ll have yo’ both put in de calaboose!” 

“Do hit, nigger, do hit!” 

“Yo’ see ef I don’t!” 

“Sho I will, nigger, sho I will!” 

And on they went, Sapphira, with her rhythmic 
chorus, breaking it after every statement. Her use of 
the word nigger in this case was evidently meant to sig¬ 
nify unspeakable contempt. 

I retreated from the disgraceful scene, more amused 
than I dared show, and went back to watch the house and 
wait the return of Ananias and Sapphira. I felt sure 
they would be in a mutilated condition—if they were 
able to get back at all. An hour later they appeared, ex- 


196 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


hausted but still talking. I asked what the outcome was 
and was told that the woman had sworn to take the case 
to court. 

“Does yo’ think she’s got any chances ob gittin’ money 
fur dat cow’s leg, seh!” Ananias asked, with a doubtful 
lowering of the head. 

I told him the case was beyond me—especially the fact 
that the cow was still living after the violent contact 
which the flivver’s condition suggested; however, I 
promised to secure a lawyer for him in case the woman 
carried out her threat. 

After dinner I was sitting on the front veranda look¬ 
ing over Savarin’s “Physiologie de Gout” —I’m doing this 
for Perkins’ benefit, as we are arranging some menus to¬ 
gether—when a burly policeman came up the walk. He 
stated—and none too politely—that he was looking for 
Ananias who had been ordered to appear before the city 
court. I waved him towards the back of the house and 
followed. Ananias met him with splendid dignity and a 
rather supercilious smile; Sapphira as usual appeared at 
the kitchen window and surveyed the scene. 

“I’se been a-spectin’ yo’ all de mornin’, seh,” said 
Ananias. “Hit’s de Jones ’oman; ain’t hit?” 

The policeman nodded. 

“I’se ready to go wid yo’. Yo* wants me now?” 

“No, tomorrow at three—at the Court House. Both 
of you.” 

“Yes, seh, we’ll sho be dar.” 

When the policeman was gone he turned to me. “Be’s 
you a minded to go wid us, seh?” 

“No, never! Why should I?” 

“ ’Cause, seh, jes yo’ presence would help us.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 197 

“I shan’t help you that way. I’m willing to in an¬ 
other, though.” 

“How’s dat, seh?” 

“In paying the woman for her cow. That’s the 
simplest way out of the trouble.” 

Here Sapphira leaned from the window. “No, seh, 
we ain’t gwine gib dat ’oman nothin’. She ain’t nothin’ 
’cept a low down thief, no how!” 

May 26- 

Late this afternoon, Sapphira came to me with her 
expressive countenance glowing with almost as much ex¬ 
citement as the day before. I prepared to hear further 
developments in the progress of the case; but it was 
quite another matter. 

“Miss Rosie wants to know ef yo’ will go up in de 
attic wid her, seh. Ef yo’ will she’ll come ober now.” 
Then, searching my face intently: “Might I axe, seh, 
whut Miss Rosie wants to go up in de attic wid yo’ fur.” 

“I’ll take you along as chaperone, Sapphira; that will 
explain more satisfactorily.” 

So she and Ananias and Rose and Lucretia Borgia and 
I climbed the rickety steps, one at a time, and were admit¬ 
ted by Ananias whose face had grown unwontedly grave. 
I believe he is still expecting to run up on the ghost. 

“Gracious—how musty it smells!” Rose exclaimed, 
looking round with eyes full of interest. “It might not 
have been opened for a century from the way it looks— 
and smells. Just think how full of history it must be!— 
especially those old trunks! May we open some of them ?” 

“Make your choice.” I swept my hand towards a pile 
of trunks, piled one upon the other and covered with 
inches of dust and cobwebs. 



198 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


She stood before them, one hand to her cheek, her eyes 
serious, as if the choice meant something to her. An¬ 
anias and Sapphira were also very grave and silent, look¬ 
ing as if their fates rested on this moment. Lucretia 
Borgia and I were the only ones who appeared to attach 
no significance to the event, she leisurely smelling and in¬ 
specting everything with casual indifference. I laughed 
outright and said the choice was not confined to one trunk. 

Rose met this with her slow smile, all the time looking 
at the trunks. “ ‘Who chooseth me/ ” she quoted softly, 
“ ‘shall get as much as he deserves/ ” 

“And not what many men desire?” 

She shook her head slowly and indicated her choice. 
“Tve given and hazarded all I have. That one, Ana¬ 
nias—the one of black horse hair.” 

When the trunk was opened we found it filled with 
uniforms of Confederate grey, most of them spotted with 
dark stains which Rose said were blood stains. 

“Do you suppose they belonged to some of my cousin’s 
relatives? I thought I was the only male member of 
the family!” I looked at Ananias for answer and got 
none. His face was still immobile and grave. And evi¬ 
dently with the intention of avoiding an answer, he im¬ 
mediately began dusting off another trunk with a vigor 
that set us all sneezing—his intention, I verily believe. 
This one contained packages done up in cloth, sewed 
tight. We opened several and found beautiful bits of 
old brocades and silks and a really unusual collection of 
laces* which were so fragile and yellowed by age that they 
tore almost in handling. We took a glance at three 
more trunks and finally found one filled with quaint old 
costumes and crinolines. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 199 

Rose took them all carefully from the trunk and laid 
them on a sheet Sapphira spread on the floor. Then she 
kneeled down and looked at them with what appeared 
to be reverence. I suppose it was that unconscious ex¬ 
pression of worship which makes all clothes into a re¬ 
ligion for women. 

The town clock striking obliterated the gloomy ex¬ 
pressions on Ananias’s and Sapphira’s faces; consterna¬ 
tion took its place. 

“ ’Fo’ Gawd, Saffy, we’se gwine to be late fur de trial!” 

“Go at once—both of you,” I said. “Tell Perkins 
to watch the house while you are gone.” 

They looked at each other, then at me and finally 
decided to go; it was evidently, though for some inex¬ 
plicable reason, against their better judgment. I turned 
back to Rose, half expecting her to go too, now that we 
were alone, but she was still examining the frocks with 
absorbed interest. I took it for granted that she knew 
all about the trial as she asked no questions. Sapphira 
tells her everything. 

I sat down while she went on spreading out a white 
tarlatan dress and regarding it with her head a little to 
one side. 

“I think Pll wear this—if you don’t mind. I always 
did like two big flounces—and this looks as if it might fit. 
Isn’t it darling!” She turned to me with her eyes full 
of nothing but interest in the frock. Is there a woman 
living who isn’t this way! 

‘‘Yes— we ar it by all means—and carry a stiff little 
bouquet with a frill of paper round it. I’ve seen them 
in old prints.” 

“I know the kind you mean,” she smiled. “Mother 


200 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


says she used to ma'ke them on branches of cedar. I’ll 
wear mitts, too—and a spray of jessamine in my hair. 
‘Oh—the smell of that jessamine flower!’ ” She threw 
back her head and laughed delightedly. “Do you think 
Miss Josie would let me in the Veterans’ Home in such 
a garb?” 

“It would be charming on you.” 

She shot a glance at me and went on laughing. 

“What amuses you so?” 

“It certainly is funny to hear you pay compliments! 
I didn’t think you were that sort.” 

“That sort! I don’t understand.” 

She looked away—and then at me. “I mean you never 
have—that’s all.” 

“It doesn’t prove I can’t.” 

She smoothed out the tarlatan carefully. “I believe 
I like you better—when you don’t.” 

“Why?” 

She laughed again; it was quite a giggling spell, the 
first time I have ever seen her indulge in one. 

“I reckon it’s because you don’t know how to do it 
like Southern men. You do it too—er—seriously.” 

“How do Southern men do it?” 

“I can’t explain exactly. Somehow—they do it in a 
way that you know doesn’t mean anything—but it sounds 
nice—and you can’t help being pleased.” 

“I’ve never heard such an utterly foolish explanation,” 
I snapped ; at which she went off into another laughing 
spell, which did not subside until I had lighted a ciga¬ 
rette. She said this was dangerous and might set fire 
to the tarlatan dress, which brought on another discus¬ 
sion about the costume. 

“I wonder if she ever loved!” I mused, looking at the 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


201 


crumpled dress that somehow suggested balls and parties 
of the long- ago. 

“Who?” 

“My cousin/’ 

Again she laughed. I have never seen her so gay as 
she was today. “How dare you suggest such a thing 
about Miss Neppy! It doesn’t sound respectful. She 
was the most dignified old lady I ever saw.” 

“There’s nothing necessarily undignified about loving, 
is there?” 

She sank down in an old chair; the tarlatan dress made 
a nebulous shadow as it lay across her knees; and a vivid 
shaft of sunlight, coming through the window, tinged her 
hair with a rim of gold and left her features indistinct. 

“If she did love,” her voice was now a shade lower 
and all the merriment had gone out of her face, “it 
must have been a love of renunciation. Think of the 
long, long years she lived here entirely alone! I think 
she was happy though—at least she always made me think 
of someone who was very brave and courageous. Per¬ 
haps—who knows!—it may have been the courage of re¬ 
nunciation !” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“All great loves have come down to us across the ages 
—not on account of consummation but of renunciation.” 

“Then you think just every day falling in love and 
getting married has no picturesqueness in it ?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“But you think it.” 

“Do you?” 

“I’m no judge. I’ve never been in love.” 

“Seriously?” she asked, after a slight pause. “Per¬ 
haps you don’t care to talk about it.” 


202 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“If I had loved I shouldn’t mind telling about it—I 
mean to you. Somehow—I feel you’d listen to it 
sympathetically.” 

She smiled. “Again!” She merely breathed the 
word, but in a way that suddenly annoyed me. 

“Look here, Miss Bruce!” I broke out, “don’t think 
I’m trying to pay you compliments. I really mean what 
I say. If you want to know—it’s because my associa¬ 
tion with you is rather unusual. In France a man never 
sees a girl as I see you—I mean so informally—so in 
the spirit of comrades. I’m enjoying it immensely. 
Now—do you see what I mean? I haven’t the slightest 
idea of trying to make love to you.” 

She waited until I had finished and then got up and 
made me a sweeping curtsey. “My—what an outburst! 
You scared me terribly. Thank you, sir, very much, 
for your explanation. I’ll promise you to do my best to 
remember that you are not making love to me.” 

“And I sincerely hope it will not be a disappointment. 
Miss Shack told me all Southern girls expect men to 
make love to them—that other subjects are so dull.” 

At this she smiled disdainfully. “I hope you tried to 
please her.” 

“I’ve done my best. Of course I need practice to do 
it ‘as Southern men do.’ ” 

She folded the tarlatan dress into a neat package, 
tied up some pieces of brocade and the lace we had 
selected for Miss Josie’s dress, and, carrying them in her 
arms, went towards the door. At the threshold she 
stopped, turned, looked at me over the armful of bundles 
and smiled. 

“I feel a little conscience stricken.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


2°3 


“Why?” 

“Fve been thinking—perhaps you’d rather send these 
things to Miss Shack to wear.” 

“Drat Miss Shack!” 

Then, on the silence that followed my words, an in¬ 
distinct, meaningless sort of laugh made us both start 
and stare at each other. 

“What was that?” I exclaimed. “It sounded near us.” 

The package fell from her arms and she pointed to¬ 
wards the partition, her face quite pale. “I’m sure it 
came from there.” 

Suddenly I determined to do at once what I had 
thought of doing ever since my arrival—get into the 
other side of the attic. “There is someone in there,” I 
said in a lowered voice. “I’ve thought so all along. 
I’m sure of it now.” 

“But—who could be there?” 

“I don’t know—but I’m going to find out right now. 
I’m going to break my way through that partition.” 
Quickly following up my words I gave a hard blow 
against the wall—and then listened. As if in response 
the strange laughter reached us again—more gruesome 
than before. 

“You heard that?” 

She nodded, trembling slightly. 

“Come with me. We must get something to break 
down that partition with.” 

We hurried down the steps and I had soon found a 
heavy axe that Ananias used for chopping wood. With 
this we returned to the attic; and after a dozen blows 
an opening had been ripped in the wall. Through this 
hole we peered into a completely furnished room. 


CHAPTER XII 


May 28- 

The room was the same size as the other side of the 
attic, though being furnished made it appear larger. 
The two windows let in a sufficient amount of sunlight 
so that the room had a cheerful aspect. It was heavily 
carpeted, evidently with the purpose of deadening sound; 
and a thing that struck me at once was that the carpet 
appeared perfectly new. At one end of the room was a 
large four-poster bed; at the other, was a simple chest 
of drawers and a tin bathtub set on a piece of linoleum; 
in the centre was a long, broad table, the top covered with 
a map on which were arranged in perfect order an amaz¬ 
ing number of tiny wooden soldiers, some painted grey, 
others blue. Seated at the table and peering down in¬ 
tently at the toy soldiers was a very old man. He was 
almost decrepit; I could see that when he put out his 
hand to move the toys. His hair and long beard were 
quite white, the latter reaching almost to his waist. He 
was dressed in a blue linen coat and trousers, with no 
evidence of shirt beneath. 

I put my finger to my lips, left Rose and crawled 
through the opening I had made in the partition. In a 
moment she followed; and we both stood there unnoticed 
by the old man who had not even looked up at our 
entrance. 

Finally he thrust out his arm, destroyed the neat group- 
204 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 205 

mg of soldiers and mixed the greys and blues indis¬ 
criminately. Then he looked up at me as though he had 
known I was there all the time. His small eyes, set deep 
in a mass of wrinkles, had no expression—only a vacant 
stare. A quick flash of fear rushed over me and I turned 
quickly to Rose. My gesture caught his attention and 
carried his glance to her, where it rested a few moments 
then returned to me. 

“Are you the new doctor ?” 

The question struck me as providential; it at least fur¬ 
nished a beginning. I nodded. “Yes—I have come to 
see how you are.” 

“Is that your wife ?” He pointed to Rose. 

“No.” 

“Is she the one who carries him food? The last doc¬ 
tor said he couldn’t swallow the prison fare.” His voice 
rose and fell with a monotonous wheezing sound that 
seemed to cost him great effort. “I’d like to thank her 
for it.” 

Rose came across the room and stood near him. When 
he reached for her hand she did not withhold it, though 
she was trembling slightly. 

“Don’t be afraid,” I whispered to her. 

“No—I’m not going to hurt you,” he said immediately 
after me. “Unless you are afraid to shake hands with a 
Confederate soldier!” He turned to me. “Where has 
the other doctor gone? He was of the 6th Connecticut, 
he told me. I liked him. He said he gave him tobacco. 
God bless him for that. Who’re you?” 

“I’ve just come.” 

“From where?” 

“Massachusetts.” 


206 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Ah! The same as your General! Well—what d’you 
want with me ?” 

“Only to see how you are.” 

He moved restlessly, his glance at times on the table, 
again at Rose, then off to the far end of the room. He 
just missed looking straight at anything; it was always a 
sidelong, timid glance. 

“Don’t bother about me,” he went on, his voice whee¬ 
dling like a child’s. “If I die—it’s all right. But you 
must save him. Tell them—” He clenched his fists, 
attempted to rise, then sank back exhausted. “I was go¬ 
ing to say—tell them it will kill him—but that’s what they 
want to do—isn’t it ?” 

I shook my head, determined to soothe him at all costs. 
He took my negation quietly and said nothing for a 
while, though his labored breathing, the result of the 
effort, sounded painful in the still room. 

He motioned me to hand him a pipe which lay on the 
other side of the table. I did so and handed him the 
pouch of tobacco beside it. He filled the pipe carefully, 
as if in anticipation of the joy it afforded him, and 
leaned back in his chair. 

“Shall I light it for you?” I asked. 

He sprang up and grasped my arm. “Will you?— 
will you?” he cried, his voice fading off into the laugh 
we had heard through the partition. “The others 
wouldn’t give me matches.” 

I hesitated, wondering if I should begin what was evi¬ 
dently forbidden; and all the time he was clinging to me, 
trembling and pleading. I looked across at Rose and 
she nodded; then I lighted a match and held it to the 
pipe and watched him draw at it like a man starving for 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 207 

the stimulant. Then, very slowly, he sank down in his 
chair and relaxed completely. A perceptible change 
gradually crept over him, an air of quiet and peace. I 
sat down beside him; and Rose slipped into the chair op¬ 
posite me. 

It was the first opportunity I had to observe him 
closely. He must have been a very handsome man in 
his youth for even now, in spite of the wreck he is, there 
are distinguishing marks. His head is extremely well- 
formed; and his hair, snow white and unkempt, grows 
back from his forehead in a manner that accentuates a 
certain nobility of brow and blue-veined temples; his 
eyes, grey and still rather piercing, must have been strik¬ 
ing in his youth. Altogether, he is a sort of eagle type— 
tall, striking, brave, with unmistakable marks of race. 

With the pipe in his mouth he sank deeper into a 
tranquil state. I thought he was going to doze, when 
his voice came abruptly: 

“Is it stormy? Has he heard from his family?” 

I answered the first question; the second I avoided. 

“He was mighty worried about their getting there 
safely. If the seas are calm it ought to be all right. 
They were on the boat with us when we got here; but 
they wouldn’t let them land.” 

“You see—I’ve just come—so I know nothing about 
it,” I hastened to put in, wondering—and hoping—if it 
would lead to some explanation. “Would you care to tell 
me about it?” 

“Tell you—no, I don’t mind.” His hand went to his 
beard and lost itself there. “Hasn’t it been in all the 
Yankee papers?” 

“I haven’t seen any lately.” 


208 that late unpleasantness 


He took the pipe from his mouth and emptied the burn¬ 
ing tobacco on the floor. Rose gave a quick cry of 
alarm. In a few moments I had gathered up the ashes, 
though the incident had shown me a great danger. He 
was quite oblivious of the incident and began once more 
arranging the toy soldiers. With another quick move¬ 
ment his gaze returned to Rose. 

“I know who you are!” He raised his trembling hand 
and pointed at her. “I know exactly who you are.” 
He burst out laughing; she shuddered and made a motion 
to rise. “No—no—don’t go! I want to tell you some¬ 
thing. I had a girl once—a pretty girl—prettier than 
you. She was my sweetheart. She came down to the 
train to see me leave with the Volunteer Rifles. She 
waved to me until I couldn’t see her any more. She 
was a pretty girl.” 

The memory appeared to cheer him, even amuse him, 
and he chuckled over it for several moments. 

“Where is she now?” Rose’s voice came in a whisper. 

He looked at her as if startled, and the mirth that was 
in his face suddenly shifted to an expression of horror; 
then he lowered his face in his hands and moaned. “I 
don’t know—I don’t know! Sometimes—a woman 
used to come here to see me—an old woman—an ugly 
little woman—very old. She said she was that girl. 
But she wasn’t. I knew better. My girl was young 
like you—and pretty. I don’t know what became of her. 
I don’t know—I don’t know.” 

Rose got up and, her face streaming with tears, went 
to him and laid her hand gently on his. She stood there 
a little while. A shaft of sunlight, coming obliquely 
through the window, announced oncoming evening. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 209 

Presently his moaning ceased, his head fell forward on 
his outstretched arms and we saw he was asleep. 

I motioned to Rose to leave the room; and before fol¬ 
lowing her I pulled an empty bookcase across the open¬ 
ing I had made in the partition. On the other side I 
pulled some trunks up to the wall to hide the hole and 
prevent any escape that way. When I had finished I 
found Rose had sunk in a chair and covered her face with 
her hands. 

“It is too horrible!” she whispered. “I’m sorry I saw 
him.” 

I stood before her, digging my hands in my pockets 
and trying to decide what should be done. “You never 
heard of him?” I asked finally. 

She shook her head. 

“Surely your mother must have!” 

“I don’t think so. No—I’m sure she does not know 
of him.” 

“Colonel Morancey and my servants do.” 

“But how could they keep it from being found out?” 

“By playing up the ghost idea.” 

“But who is he? What is he doing here? What can 
it mean?” 

Her questions were exactly the same ones I had been 
putting to myself. “There is some reason for his keep¬ 
ing this from me—some reason that he does not wish to 
explain. But I’m going to find out.” 

“By asking him—of course!” 

“No—without his aid.” 

“But ought you not to tell him of it at once?” 

“He has told me nothing; in fact he has taken special 
precautions to keep me from finding out. I think—I’m 


2io THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


sure it is better for me to unravel this alone. I am going 
to ask you to mention it to no one.” 

“Except Mother?” 

“Not even your mother. You will do this for me?” 

She nodded, after a slight pause, and rose. “If you 
wish it—of course I shall say nothing. But I can’t help 
thinking it would be so much better to tell Colonel Mo- 
rancey and get it all cleared up.” She stopped suddenly 
and grew a shade paler. “Besides—it is dangerous for 
you here! Don’t you think he is mad ?” 

I nodded. “I’m not afraid of that. It is only the ex¬ 
planation of all this secrecy that worries me. You will 
promise not to mention it? Thank you. You have for¬ 
gotten your frock and laces. Let me bring them for 
you.” 

I walked across the lawn with her, all our gaiety of the 
afternoon gone. The tragedy we had witnessed left 
us both without anything to say. I turned back 
to the house more perplexed than I have been since I 
arrived. 

Ananias and Sapphira came in at the same time with 
equally gloomy countenances and the information that 
the judge had found the case too complicated for the 
Police Courts and had sent it to a higher tribunal. As 
far as I can make out there is to be real legal procedure 
in the wretched affair. To relieve their minds I tele¬ 
phoned the Colonel, who roared over it, and recom¬ 
mended a young lawyer; I telephoned him also and ar¬ 
ranged for Ananias and Sapphira to go to him the next 
morning. 

I have been trying to decide what ought to be done 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


211 


about the old fellow in the attic. Why should his pres¬ 
ence there be kept from me? That is the question that 
continually recurs to me. I strode up and down the 
veranda all evening searching for some explanation; and 
all the while my resentment towards Morancey was in¬ 
creasing. Perhaps he does not wish to put me in pos¬ 
session of the family skeleton—for that is what it must 
be—until I have been tested, until I have given him my 
word to remain five years. This, in a way, is reasonable; 
and he may have been instructed accordingly by my 
cousin. 

Evidently the old fellow has been in the house many 
years and surely under her protection! The whole situa¬ 
tion is preposterous. First of all, to live in a house with 
a madman is extraordinarily unpleasant—no matter how 
harmless or safely guarded he may be; moreover, this is 
no place for him. He should be in an asylum with pro¬ 
fessional attention. Surely Morancey must tell me soon! 
In the meantime I may get some sort of a clue from 
the old man himself. 

At times, he talked sensibly enough—only I hadn’t an 
idea what he was talking about. I think I shall visit him 
alone and see what can be got out of him. The carpet 
was a recent addition, I’m sure, put down to muffle the 
sound I had heard; which brings me to another question. 
Was he in the house during my cousin’s lifetime or—and 
here I stumble on a much graver suspicion—was he 
put here since her death? 

Altogether it’s rather uncanny. I don’t like it. I 
think I shall tell Morancey that I’ve decided to remain 
the five years; not that I’ve the slightest idea of doing so, 


212 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

but just to see if it will make him come out with the 
mystery. 

May 29- 

My curiosity gave me a most uncomfortable morning. 
Obsessed as I was with the extraordinary discovery of 
yesterday I could hardly restrain myself from going up 
to the attic under the watchful eyes of both Ananias and 
Sapphira; it was only the certainty that they would com¬ 
municate at once with Morancey that kept me from doing 
it. At dinner a solution was offered by Ananias. Two 
hundred negroes were to be baptized that afternoon in 
the river and he and Sapphira wanted to attend the cele¬ 
bration. I consented with alacrity and advised Perkins 
to go too, as it would doubtless add color to his impres¬ 
sions of the place. 

As soon as they were gone I made for the attic and 
found the door securely locked. In desperation I climbed 
out on the roof with the intention of entering through a 
window. Imagine my surprise when I had crawled across 
the roof and found the windows to the old man’s room 
crossed by iron bars! These were not visible from the 
ground, nor had I noticed them from the inside of the 
room, due, probably, to the shutters which concealed 
them. 

Going down stairs again with the intention of finding 
the axe to break one of the windows open, I heard Lu- 
cretia Borgia Wailing in a most unusual way. As a rule 
she is taciturn; but today her cry sounded as though Sap¬ 
phira had shut the oven door on her tail before going 
to the baptizing. I went in to offer assistance and found 
her in the pantry seated on the shelf of a china cabinet, 
her head thrown back, her tail switching from side to 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


213 


side and her piercing wails increasing at my appearance. 
So far as I could see, there was nothing outwardly wrong 
and I supposed the trouble must be an interior complica¬ 
tion. Not knowing what was customary to give cats for 
indigestion or appendicitis—whichever it was—I stood 
staring at her hopelessly but sympathetically. Having 
gained my attention, she made for the back of the cabinet 
and sniffed pointedly. I supposed this was meant to de¬ 
note the proximity of a mouse, though I saw no possible 
way of aiding the chase. To show the proper interest T 
made pretense to pull out a lower drawer of the cabinet. 
Lucretia was beside me in a moment. I pulled the whole 
drawer out; and without any further effort on my part 
the whole cabinet swung to one side and I found myself 
staring at a narrow staircase on which Lucretia imme¬ 
diately seated herself and began an attack on a chicken 
bone. 

It was easy to see that this was the entrance to the attic 
that Ananias must use; the bone Lucretia had found was 
evidence enough that he carried up food this way. Go¬ 
ing up the steps I came to a door barred on the outside 
with a piece of timber; lifting this I opened the door and 
entered the room I had been in yesterday. 

The old man was bent forward over the table as I 
had found him the day before; and when, unnoticed, 1 
had come up to his chair, I saw that the soldiers were 
ranged on the map with some reasonable conception of a 
plan. Directly opposite him were massed the blue sol¬ 
diers about a name printed on the map, Cemetery Ridge; 
nearer him were the grey soldiers gathered about Semi¬ 
nary Ridge; between them the map was empty. I tried 
to figure it out as I looked over his shoulder, but the 


214 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

names on the map were unfamiliar to me. It must be a 
battle I have not yet read about. 

When he looked up at me, quite without surprise, I 
thought it a good chance to put a question. “Who won?” 
I asked, looking down at the map. 

“Nobody—nobody.” 

“Who were the generals?” 

“Meade there—Lee here.” 

“And neither won?” 

He glanced back at the arrangement, running his hand 
all the time restlessly through his beard. “The third 
day,” he began, off once more on what I thought was a 
change of subject, “he made us cross here.” He pushed 
a line of grey soldiers into the open space. “It was a 
mile of open ground—and they were up there rolling hell 
down on top of us! We did what he told us—but it 
was just like this!” He brushed his hands across the 
grey soldiers until every one was lying flat; then he ran 
it pell-mell through the blues. “Will you give me a 
match today? Where’s the girl? Have you seen him 
today ?” 

I watched him fill the pipe and lighted it for him; and 
then sat down near him determined to get what I could 
out of him. The beginning seemed propitious; he ap¬ 
peared to know what he was talking about even if I 
didn’t. 

“How is he?” came his question. 

“Who?” 

He laughed meaninglessly and I feared the calm period 
had gone; then he continued: “Won’t they take the 
chains off him soon?” 

I moved the chair closer and tried to catch his eyes. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


215 


It was impossible. “You said yesterday you would tell 
me about him.” 

“What d’you want to know?” 

“Everything.” 

He let his head rest in his hand, which was propped 
on the table. “D’you ever see him ?” 

I shook my head. He leaned back in the chair and 
closed his eyes. 

“I can see him now—ready to fight his way through— 
only there wasn’t any use any longer. ... It was early 
in the morning. I’d been on watch all night and had 
just gone to the tent when my darky told me the Yankees 
had come. It was misty so I could just make out that 
cavalry was all round us. He was talking to a man on 
horseback who demanded his surrender. I can see him 
shaking his head now: ‘Never.’ The Yankee asked 
him if he had any arms. He said: Tf I had you 
wouldn’t be alive to ask that question.’ Then I went up 
to him—and he told me it was all over—that he knew he 
was a prisoner—that he would go with them—but that I 
must take care of his wife and children. I didn’t have 
a chance—all of us were taken prisoners with him. . . . 
I stayed by him till they took us off the boat here. I 
saw him when they led him into the prison. I saw him 
looking at me through iron bars after they had shut the 
door between us.” Suddenly he lifted his head and there 
was a wild look in his eyes. “Somebody told on us!” 
His cracked, trembling voice was strained to a cry. 
“Somebody told on us! I know who did it—and I can’t 
remember his name! I try all the time to think of it— 
and I can’t—I can’t! But if I could see him—I’d know 
him! If I could remember his name I’d tell them—but I 


216 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


can’t—I can’t remember anything!” He ended with an 
upward movement of the hands and a gurgling sound 
that showed his voice had given out. 

After that, I could get nothing more from him; and so, 
carefully emptying his pipe, which he had placed upside 
down on the table, I left him and went downstairs. The 
house was so still and deserted that I could hardly keep 
back a shudder as I passed through it. 

Perkins returned in a little while and diverted me with 
an account of the baptizing he had witnessed. It had 
impressed him deeply, for his eyes were bulging with 
alarm as he recounted the proceedings. 

“It was like a bit of life from the Congo, sir. There 
were two negro curates who stood knee deep in the 
water, quite near the shore, wearing some sort of white 
robes and top hats. Extraordinary costumes, sir—quite! 
Then a long procession of negro men and women, dressed 
in white dominoes, came forward, one by one, were 
caught none too gently by the curates and held under the 
water a most amazing length of time, sir. When they 
were finally released they were received on shore, in a 
dripping, coughing, spluttering state, by relatives and 
friends who vainly attempted to calm them when their 
excitement—exaltation, I suppose you’d call it, sir—be¬ 
came dangerous—even to onlookers. And they were all 
singing, sir—that strange creature you have for cook 
amongst the rest, sir. I’ve read of the jungles—but I’m 
quite amazed to find them so near us here.” 

Colonel Morancey stopped in for a moment just be¬ 
fore supper. 

“Just stopped to pass the time of day with you,” he 
said, in his most urbane style, “and ask you if you’d be 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 217 

good enough to go with Rose tomorrow out to the lot 
we’ve selected. You remember you promised to design 
the house for us—and I reckon it’s time we were getting 
at it if it’s to be done in time for the wedding.” 

‘‘When is the wedding?” I asked, unprepared for the 
subject which I had grown to think of as a part of a 
vague future. 

“In November—six months off.” 

“I’ll be delighted to go with Miss Bruce,” I hesitated 
barely a second, “only—she has never mentioned the 
marriage to me.” 

“Oh—that’s nothing! Some girls are bashful about 
such things. This will be a good excuse for her to tell 
you about it. I’m going over now—so I’ll tell her you’ll 
come by for her—say about five tomorrow. Does that 
suit you ?” 

“You will go with us?” 

“No indeed! I don’t know anything about houses. 
All I want is for it to please her. You make it just as 
she says. That’ll suit me.” 

He went down the walk swinging his hat and whistling 
a gay air that I found somehow unusually exasperating. 
I suppose he considered himself at the moment a sort of 
conquering hero on the way to see his well-beloved, who 
no doubt received him with downcast eyes so full of 
adoration that she hesitated to let him see them. Women 
know so well how to play this game. All of which I 
don’t believe at all—at least when it concerns her. 


CHAPTER XIII 


May 30- 

This afternoon I called for Rose, having sent Sap- 
phira over earlier in the day to find out what time she ex¬ 
pected me. She said she would be ready at five o’clock 
so I ordered Ananias to have the carriage ready—for it 
is quite hot now and walking at that hour is out of the 
question. 

Ananias will never drive fast, no matter how much I 
urge him; it may be the result of his recent experience in 
speeding in the flivver—though I’m more inclined to 
think it was my cousin’s training, who probably thought 
it beneath her position to move out of a dignified pace. 
I have learned to be less impatient with him lately, a fact, 
I attribute to the climate. Indeed, I believe that explains 
a good many questions that puzzled me at first. 

I am beginning to see how these long hot days color 
everything—complexion, voice, mind and morals. I 
don’t think this is an extreme statement, as it is quite 
reasonable to believe that one has more energy when a 
cold climate sends the blood racing through the system 
than when balmy days invite loafing. 

Even art shows this influence:—compare the music of 
the North with that of the South. One is vigorous; the 
other is sweet and soothing; the former may be more 
intellectual but it is the intellect that is inclined to forget 
the existence of heart. 


218 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS' 219 


A strange effect of this warm climate, which I do not 
thoroughly understand, is that, though the softness of 
atmosphere is conducive to an entire forgetfulness of 
physical being—I mean there are no chapped lips or 
frost-bitten noses or miserable chilblains to keep one’s at¬ 
tention on oneself—still there is no creative mental activ¬ 
ity resulting from this pleasant condition. The argument 
appears to be on the side of chilblains for intellectual 
stimulation. 

I asked Miss Josie if the marked difference in the 
voices of the New Yorker and the Southerner, which 
even I had noticed, was also a result of climate. She 
hooted the idea, explaining that the softness of South¬ 
erners’ voices was entirely a question of servants. 
Further elucidated, her theory was that Southerners had 
always had so many darkies about that it was never 
necessary to raise the voice to call one; while in the North 
there was usually one maid to cook and do the housework, 
and as she was generally in the basement when the mis¬ 
tress was upstairs, or vice versa, one had to shriek to 
make the other hear. 

The town looked asleep as we drove through it, though 
it is unusually pretty just now with gay awnings pro¬ 
tecting the verandas; green, well-groomed lawns and a 
mass of brilliant flowers thrive in every garden one 
passes. I have never seen a prettier spring—if you 
could call it that; it is more like full summer. 

“Have you seen him again?” was Rose’s first question. 

“Only once.” 

“Was—was he better?” . 

“No—worse, I should say. For a while he talked 
sensibly enough about a battle. By the way, the map 


220 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


showed two points—Seminary and Cemetery Ridges. 
Where are they?” 

“At Gettysburg—of course.” 

“Were Lee and Meade the generals?” 

She nodded. 

“And was Lee captured there?” 

“No. Why do you ask?” 

“He is always talking about someone being captured 
and made prisoner. Yesterday he said he knew the man 
who betrayed them.” I went on with a detailed account 
of what I had heard. She listened intently. 

“It can’t be General Lee—he was never captured.” 

“If we can only find out what he is talking about, it 
may throw some light on the matter. Would you go 
up there again with me and listen to him? You might 
be able to make something out of it.” 

She shuddered and looked away. “If it will do any 
good—I will go, of course; but I dread it. I didn’t sleep 
a wink that night after seeing him.” 

“It would help—because you know so much more 
about this history.” 

“Then I will go with you.” 

The lot Colonel Morancey has bought is at the begin¬ 
ning of my undeveloped property, on the edge of the 
town, in the same direction as the Veterans’ Home and 
with a similar view. To reach it one must go up a steep 
hill where the road is none too good, but the view from 
the top of the town nestling in its grove of trees is 
compensating. 

We dismissed Ananias as we had decided to walk home 
after sunset; and then we crossed the grounds which 
face the road and made for a large magnolia tree on the 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


221 


brow of the hill. I spread a lap robe in the dense shade 
of the tree and Rose sat down and leaned back against the 
trunk; then she took off her hat—a broad brimmed straw 
with a single rose and a black velvet bow—and held it 
in her lap; as usual, she was dressed in white. 

I sprawled on the ground and smoked; it was too 
luxuriously warm to bother about talking—and besides I 
wanted to study the decorative effect she made under the 
tree. Her white frock against the black tree trunk, the 
brown of her eyes and hair with a background of green 
leaves, the rose and velvet as a punctuation, and the warm 
pallor of her face.—it was all a very fetching picture. 
She has a flair for fitting into surroundings. 

She pulled a bit of paper from the ribbon at her waist 
and looked at it intently—and then at me almost timidly. 

“Your own plans for the house?” I asked. 

“Yes—in a way. I wonder if you are going to laugh 
at them!” Then, withdrawing her glance and letting it 
rest on the sweeping scene: “Anyhow—I’ve an idea of 
what I want my house to be like. I always think of them 
as being like people—just like us; loving and hating their 
owners—judging us by the way we treat them. It 
might be so; mightn’t it?” 

“Heavens—what a disadvantage we’d be at!” 

“Disadvantage!—how?” She drew her brows to¬ 
gether—a trick I find rather fascinating. 

“By knowing us so intimately.” 

“That should make them love us all the more.” 

“If we were worthy—yes.” 

“Aren’t all of us worthy of being loved? That is the 
best part of association—it brings out our understanding 
of each other.” 


222 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“That’s the most extraordinary theory I’ve ever heard. 
I don’t think I agree with you at all.” 

“But you must—for you, yourself, are a proof of it. 
Over a month ago you couldn’t think of anything except 
getting back to Paris. Lately—I haven’t heard you men¬ 
tion it. So you see—perhaps unconsciously—association 
has bred good-feeling in you towards us.” 

I lit another cigarette. Yes—I believe she is right. 
I shifted my position so that I could look out across the 
view of hills and river and town. The sun was far down 
toward the misty lowlands across the river—Louisiana; 
the scene was drifting into that beautiful half light of 
gloaming; the vibrations of nature were nearer and yet 
seemingly far off. Some birds flew into the tree above her 
and went to bed with contented twitters. It was that 
moment when the world about us becomes more spiritual 
—in a way more actually a part of us, or we of it, than 
at any other time. Very gently—as if coming to me on 
the quiet of this twilight hour—I realized that I was ex¬ 
periencing the happiest moments that had yet come to me. 

“When shall you begin the plans?” Her voice, per¬ 
fectly atuned to the fading lights, indeed a part of it in 
its gentle tones, shot through me like a flaming sword. 

“First,” I struggled to answer her, “first—you must 
tell me what you want.” 

“The house must face the river—with an entrance on 
the road. It is to be only one story—with overhanging 
eaves—with heaps of places for vines—with windows 
that can be opened wide—and a broad gallery—a sort of 
terrace, I reckon you’d call it—where I can sit in the 
evening—just at this hour.” 

“And the interior?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 223 

“All white enameled wood—with painted walls.” 

I nodded. “Yes—that will make a good background 
for those good bits of furniture you have.” 

She looked at me with a startled expression. “No— 
no! Everything must be new—brand new! Not a piece 
of old furniture!” 

I was frankly disappointed. “But you told me all 
those old pieces in your home were like members of the 
family!” 

“They are—but all this is to be new. I must have 
nothing to—to remember by.” Her voice dropped to 
almost a whisper. “I must forget. I must not look 
back—only forward.” 

The thought shot through me that she was telling 
everything. “Then it shall all be new,” I said, drawing 
a memorandum pad from my pocket and finding my 
hand unsteady. 

“The hall—I think I’d like a real hall—not a reception 
room that one enters directly from the street.” 

“I know what you mean. All halls should be places in 
which one has a moment to prepare for the worst.” 

She smiled at my feeble jest. “It must be done in 
green—a pleasant, deep green which means a quiet 
welcome.” 

“I see—the hall done in welcome. And the living 
room?” 

“Warm golden brown—friendship—friendship which 
has seen all sorts of weather and grown mellow.” 

“The dining room?” 

“Vivid crimson and cream—good cheer. It must be 
gay and jolly and free from care.” 

“And your room ?” 


224 that late unpleasantness 

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the tree. 
“I want everything there very fresh and sweet—flowers 
on trellises, cretonnes and dainty furniture—and a dream 
chair by the window so I can sit there and look out and 
—forget much—and remember a little.” 

Her voice died away on the lengthening shadows; the 
sun had disappeared; and all about us was the vague, 
warm twilight. She let the little piece of paper slip un¬ 
noticed to the ground and, with hands clasped in her 
lap, opened her eyes and looked straight before her into 
the oncoming dusk. She had forgotten me and the whole 
world—except that house of dreams. I did not speak; 
I only gazed at her with strange thoughts rushing 
through my mind. I was puzzled—and a little awed, too. 
Something was tugging at my heart—something that had 
never been there before. 

Her voice floated on to the silence. “You see it? 
You know what I mean?” 

I swept my hand before me. “It is there.” 

She met my glance and our eyes dwelt together 
through a long silence. 

“I thought you would see,” she more breathed the 
words than spoke them. “Now you know—you can go 
on with the plans—the real plans.” She attempted a 
smile, which faded when it met my seriousness. 

Of course I knew! I knew too much. With a rush 
everything before me grew blurred. I felt the strange 
thing tightening about my heart. Then the realization 
burst upon me with horror—the realization that she was 
going to marry another. 

I finally looked towards her and found her hands ex¬ 
tended. I grasped them and she sprang lightly to her 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 225 

feet. Then she turned towards the road and we went 
down the hill, both silent. 

There were some negro cabins at the foot of the hill. 
In front of one a woman was holding a pan of frying 
bacon over a small wood fire. The scent filled the air 
with an appetizing suggestion. In the door of the cabin 
another woman was sitting, nursing a baby and crooning 
a lullaby. Within the cabin was the glow from a single 
candle. It was all quite ugly and sordid, the surround¬ 
ings were far from clean, yet about it was that spirit of 
home which everyone of us—no matter if we be savages 
or kings—intensely craves. 

The strange thing had me once more in its grip. I 
stopped—and before I knew it I had called her name. 

“Rose.” 

She turned swiftly and looked at me; then her color 
deepened and her eyes looked straight into mine. Though 
she said nothing, I felt she had asked me to say no more. 
We did not speak again; and I left her at her gate, her 
parting a murmured goodby with eyes turned away. 


CHAPTER XIV 


June io- 

So much has happened during the past week that I have 
not had a moment to jot down impressions. To begin 
with, I have been taken up by the smart set of Cotton- 
ville—that is by the Misses Shack and their circle. I was 
invited to their house to dine Monday evening, a young 
people’s gathering without chaperons—a flapper party, 
I suppose it would be called. 

The two girls received and there was no glimpse of 
either Mama or Papa during the evening. My dinner 
companion was kind enough to explain that their absence 
was due to Mama’s serving the dinner and Papa’s open¬ 
ing the wines. When I showed astonishment at this my 
informant said it was the custom here as there were no 
servants sufficiently well trained to handle so elaborate a 
dinner undirected. It was an elaborate affair, I must 
admit; there were many dishes new to me and an endless 
display of strange implements to eat them with. Savarin 
—even if he did live for a time in Philadelphia—never 
imagined the things I saw that night; and one custom 
here which seems popular with everyone is to serve an 
elaborate salad as a course by itself, usually before the 
ice. In Europe it would be either a hors d’oeuvre served 
at luncheon or something that appeared in connection 
with the meat course. After dinner the elder Miss Shack 
poured coffee in the drawing room, then bridge tables 
were brought in and we played for prizes furnished by 
226 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


227 


the hostesses. It seems that playing for money has not 
yet been accepted except on very private occasions. How¬ 
ever the prizes were worth their weight in gold; I was 
forced to leave mine until I could send Ananias for it the 
next morning—an immense cut glass punch bowl. The 
other prizes were correspondingly expensive, one young 
woman carrying off a fan of point de Venise. After 
bridge, a negro quartet came in and played jazz until the 
very small hours of the morning. I understand that it was 
one of the very smartest affairs Cottonville has ever seen. 
Rose was not invited—not playing bridge and not being 
a member of the Shack clique. I have a suspicion they 
look upon her as being too much of a back number for 
their up-to-dateness. 

The next night I supped with Dr. Archer’s enormous 
family and had a much better time—at least from the 
viewpoint of provincialism which interests me more since 
I arrived here than anything else. The Shacks are 
ashamed of their provincialism and strive heroically to 
overcome it and be what they think is cosmopolitan; Dr. 
Archer’s family don’t realize that they are provincial 
and just for that reason are really much less so than the 
Shacks. Such comment from me sounds like heresy as I 
have always stood for the modern in everything; yet I 
find I have enough appreciation of what is real and sin¬ 
cere to see the worth of this old school. Everyone passed 
things at the table, one daughter had made the chicken 
salad, another the blanc mange—and each was proud of 
having done it. As a matter of style I found their homely 
supper much better form than the Shacks’ dinner which 
the mother had to remain in the kitchen to serve instead of 
being in her place at the head of the table. There was no 


228 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


pretense at the Archers’, which gave dignity and sincerity 
—the most important ingredients of good taste. This 
freedom from sham and affectation is what makes the 
older people I meet here so charming; if an era of pre¬ 
tentions is to follow them—which appears likely from 
the example shown by some of the younger set—they 
will all lose what seems to me to be the great mission of 
the new world. 

The following night Mrs. Bruce asked me to supper. 
Miss Josie was there and of course the Colonel. The 
conversation naturally drifted into the subject they can’t 
forget for ten successive minutes. The preparations for 
the opening of the Veterans’ Home are now complete, in¬ 
cluding a promise from twenty Daughters of the Con¬ 
federacy to send as many freezers of ice cream and as 
many more to send cakes—all furnished through pa¬ 
triotic enthusiasm, of course. Miss Josie’s eyes beamed 
on each one of us as the subject was turned over and 
over until by rights it should have been threadbare. 

“And Rose—what do you think ?—the Shack girls have 
ordered their dresses from New Orleans! They refuse 
to wear ‘musty old things that have been in an attic for 
fifty years.’ I’ve a good mind to tell them they needn’t 
come at all!” 

“Oh, no, Miss Josie—please don’t!” Rose pleaded. 
“When they see how precious we look in really old things, 
they’ll realize the failure of imitations. I’m terribly 
proud of my white tarlatan.” 

“Well—I’m mighty glad you are! Another idea the 
Shacks don’t approve of! I want all the tea girls to wear 
a white and red ribbon from shoulder to waist. They 
say that will spoil the looks of their dresses.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 229 

“I agree with them,” I put in. “It wouldn’t be 
pretty.” 

She gave me a withering glance. “It isn’t a question 
of what’s pretty and what isn’t—it’s the sentiment those 
colors stand for in our hearts. You don’t know anything 
about it.” 

“I do think he’s right, though, Miss Josie,” Rose de¬ 
fended me. “Besides, you have the colors everywhere 
and everybody knows they are in our hearts—so—you 
see, it’s not necessary to wear them.” 

Miss Josie gave one last thrust before taking her de¬ 
feat. “I might have known you’d agree with him!” 

“Why?” 

“Because you do—in everything!” 

Rose flashed a look at me and laughed gaily. “Did 
you know that?” 

“No. But the discovery is delightful.” 

Miss Josie rushed into another issue of the same sub¬ 
ject—this time in regard to the assigning of rooms as 
the veterans arrived. In fact the whole evening was a 
monologue by her in which the rest of us appeared as a 
Greek chorus—though without half the chance of saying 
nearly so much as they did. We went to the veranda 
after supper and continued the subject until Miss Josie 
rose to leave. I asked her to let me accompany her home, 
which she consented to do provided Rose would go too, 
so that I would not have the long walk back alone. 

We landed her safely within her door and turned back. 
For some reason Rose and I have run out of conversa¬ 
tion the last few times I have seen her—ever since the 
afternoon we talked about the house. We walked prac¬ 
tically all the way back without saying a word. Once a 


2 3 o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

dog barked at us from the other side of a fence and she 
grabbed my arm with a startled cry; we laughed over it 
and were silent again. 

At her gate she looked towards my house; then back 
to me. “You haven’t mentioned the old man to Colonel 
Morancey yet?” 

“No.” 

“Please do. I hate to think of you living there with 
him. I’m always thinking he may get out of that room 
—that he might do something desperate. Don’t you 
think it’s dangerous?” 

I smiled at her alarm. “He’s the most harmless old 
fellow in the world. And so far as doing anything des¬ 
perate—he’s too old and feeble.” 

“Then you insist on telling no one?” 

“Yes. I’m determined to find out alone.” 

“But—why ?” 

“Because”—suddenly I realized that I was on slightly 
dangerous ground—“because if I haven’t yet been told— 
there must be a very good reason for keeping it from me.” 

June ii- 

At dinner today Ananias regarded me with his side¬ 
long glance and began scratching his head. This always 
means a request of some sort; so I told him to fire away 
and get it off his mind. 

“I wuz gwine to axe yo’ to go to de Court House wid 
me an’ Saffy, seh.” 

“What for?” 

“Jest to show dem we’se quality folks’ niggers.” 

“No, Ananias—you are not going to involve me in 
your disgraceful affair. I advised you to pay the woman 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 231 

for her disabled cow—and you wouldn’t take my sugges¬ 
tion. She is bound to win her case.” 

“ ’Deed she won’t, seh! Not as long as I draws a 
breath!” 

“How can you help yourself if the Court decides 
against you ?” 

“Hit ain’t gwine do dat. I’se got de best lawyer in 
Mis’sippi—an’ he says hits all in ma favor.” 

“They always say that.” 

After dinner I made a tour of the garden—which is 
a joy these days. It reminds me of the Arabian Nights 
in its richness of color and conflict of perfumes. Return¬ 
ing to the house I came across Calla Lily at the wash 
tub. Since her first appearance she has accomplished her 
mission without the accompaniment of song, though I 
believe a lessening of energy has resulted. She greeted 
me with a splutter of suds, a broad smile and asked how 
I “laked libin in de ole Missus’ house.” 

While I was replying to this and explaining to her that 
double cuffs should be laundered without starch, Ananias 
and Sapphira came from their quarters dressed in what 
they considered proper attire for a court room. Ananias 
had put on a pair of shepherd’s plaid trousers—evidently 
a gift from Perkins—a frock coat that must have been 
fashioned during the Civil War and an ancient top hat; 
Sapphira was in calico, a giddy design of purple and 
green, so stiffly starched that it did not touch her any¬ 
where, a ruffled sunbonnet that I’m sure she borrowed 
from Rose and a red silk parasol. 

They were rather embarrassed when they found me 
regarding their finery and smiling; as for Calla Lily, she 
left off laundering completely and stared. 


232 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“Nigger!” she exclaimed to Sapphira, “yo’ sho does 
look grand! Whar’s yo’ gwine ?” 

Sapphira threw her a condescending glance; I think 
she found the remark out of place, considering my pres¬ 
ence. She really has a very deep appreciation of the 
proprieties. Then she gave her head a proud upward 
toss and replied with considerable dignity: “Fse gwine 
whar I’se gwine, nigger; dat’s whar I’se gwine.” 

I fled into the house to hide my amusement. I am 
growing foolishly fond of them. I waited on the 
veranda until they were safely out of the way—though 
I did not wait alone as Lucretia Borgia has grown into 
the habit of taking possession of one end of the veranda 
each afternoon which she uses as her private bathroom. 
Here, with the aid of strong sunlight and a skilful tongue, 
she accomplishes a most elaborate toilette. It is as¬ 
tounding what interest she has developed in her personal 
appearance; one would think she was planning conquests. 
She bathes continually; and considering what an ex¬ 
hausting undertaking it is, she deserves much credit. I 
was absorbed today in watching her sweep her tongue 
from the top of her head straight down the middle of her 
back to the tip end of her tail. She has to relax each 
time before repeating the gesture. The result is quite 
worth the effort, though, for she is rapidly developing 
into a beauty so far as figure goes—her countenance how¬ 
ever remains nothing short of fiendish. This recalls the 
story Dr. Archer told me the other night of a man who 
said his wife would have been the handsomest woman 
south of Mason-Dixon’s Line if her head had been cut 
off. I wonder if his reference to one’s neck as Mason- 
Dixon’s Line is a classical allusion! 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


233 


Finally, the coast clear, I went up to the attic and 
found the old man in his accustomed place before the 
table. He looked up at me quite blankly, then went on 
ranging his soldiers on the map. At last he put out his 
hand towards me. “Matches!” 

I gave him a box and watched him fumble hopelessly 
with a match; then I lighted it for him. The flow of 
smoke gradually brought him complete repose, he 
stretched in his chair and put a question. “How is he 
today ?” 

“Better/’ I replied in the manner I had adopted. “He 
is getting on quite well.” 

Another silence. “Will they ever take the shackles off 
him?” 

“I haven’t heard them say anything about shackles 
lately,” I answered. 

His eyes clouded, his hands clenched, then, weakened 
by the passion that swept over him, he settled back in 
his chair. “If the fellow before you hadn’t told me about 
their putting chains on him—I could rest easy,” he broke 
out suddenly. “Now—I can’t think of anything else!” 

“What did he tell you?” I asked gently. 

He jerked back his head and glared at me. “You 
know well enough. Why d’you ask that?” 

“I know he is in chains—yes,” I pretended knowledge, 
“but the way it was done-” 

“The way it was done!” he broke into my words. 
“That fellow before you told me all about it. He did it 
to devil me—he was smiling all the time! He said up in 
Washington they were having the Grand Review—down 
here they were putting him in chains! He was sick—in 
bed—played out—one eye gone—hopes dead—family 



234 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

away—and his country a charnel house! Wasn’t that 
enough for him! Yet they wanted to chain him!” 

He emptied the pipe and filled it again. I held a 
lighted match. 

“I can’t get it out of my head. Curse that man for 
telling me about it! It spins round in my head like a 
top! Can you hear it roar?” He rocked to and fro 
for a little while, half moaning, half crooning. “I can 
see them now—going into his cell and telling him to get 
up. What for?—why, to put shackles on him—to put 
him in chains! There is the blacksmith holding them 
in his hands. Can’t you see him! . . . He didn’t know 
what they meant at first; then it came over him. He 
trembled from head to foot—not fear—no, no!—shame. 
‘My God—you aren’t going to put iron on me! I’m a 
weak old man—I can’t escape—I can’t do any more harm 
—the war is over—my country is conquered! Don’t do 
this! Kill me first! My people would rather you did 
that than insult them through me in this way!’ . . . They 
tried to get hold of him; he fought them off. Then— 
then—all of them together beat him down and threw 
him on the floor. ‘I’m a prisoner of war! I am a sol¬ 
dier ! I’m not afraid to die! Kill me—but not this dis¬ 
grace!’ Nobody listened, nobody cared. They held 
him there and shackled him. . . . That’s what the fellow 
before you told me; and he told me through the iron bars 
of that door. He was afraid to get any nearer to me. 
After that—I began to forget everything else. I can’t 
remember any more now—I can’t remember that man’s 
name that told on us. But I know his face. ... You 
aren’t afraid of me though—are you? Because—because 
you give me matches.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


235 


He ended with some inarticulate words; and then, with 
sudden decision, got up and tottered towards the window. 
I followed, took hold of his arm and steadied him and 
stood beside him through a long silence—and as we 
waited there the tears streamed down his wrinkled old 
face. I wondered over the tragedy he had just recounted 
and the passion and hatred that was still consuming him. 
This insult, heaped upon his friend, was evidently the 
culmination of despair which had wrecked his reason. 
And after fifty years—it was burning in his thoughts as 
though it were actually of the present moment! 

Suddenly he took hold cf my arm and whispered to 
me: “If I could take his place! Couldn’t you manage 
it? Yes?” 

I shook my head. “I have no power here.” 

He withdrew his hand slowly, stood a moment in un¬ 
certainty, then staggered towards the bed, threw himself 
headlong across it and burst out sobbing. I sat beside 
him until he had sobbed himself to sleep. 

I had no supper that night. Ananias and Sapphira did 
not come home until after ten o’clock. When they came 
up the walk I was on the veranda and called to them to 
know the verdict. In the light from the hall I searched 
their faces for the result; their mien, however, told me 
nothing; it was neither conquering nor beaten; an omi¬ 
nous silence, though, led me to believe that all was not 
well. 

“What is the matter?” I questioned. “Trial post¬ 
poned ?” 

“No, seh—hit’s done,” said Ananias. 

“And the verdict?” 


236 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

Here Sapphira stepped forward. “Dat’s whut we’se 
studyin’ ’bout. We doesn’t know ’xactly whut de jedge 
meant.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Well, seh—atter all de evidences wuz heard— an’ de 
udder ’oman had had her say—all de jury gemmen said 
dey must see de cow. Dat tuk a long time, seh, ’cause 
de cow ain’t able to walk jest yet—her leg ain’t ’tirely 
mended. So all de gemmen say dey must go see her— 
an’ find out how much milk she be a-gibin’. Dat’s whut 
dey did, seh—ebery last one ob dem. An’ dey made de 
’oman milk de cow right dar ’fo’ deir eyes. Now—yo’ 
knows, seh, dat a cow dat’s gwine broke her leg ’gainst a 
ottermobil ain’t gwine gib much milk! I could a tole 
dem dat maself! Den dey all come back an’ shut deyself 
in de jury room an’ stayed dar till ten o’clock. I wuz 
jest wore out—an’ itchin’ to git back heah an’ cook yo’ 
supper. But de lawyer gemman, he say no, to stay right 
whar I wuz. Den de jury gemmen come back in de room 
an’ gib de jedge a piece ob paper—an’ de jedge, seh, he 
done got up an’ coughed—jest lak dis, seh.” 

“Yes—but what did he say?” 

“ ’Fo’ Gawd, seh, ain’t you listenin’! Now, seh, ’bout 
whut was on dat piece ob paper.” 

“Well—what was on it?” 

“Dat’s whut’s puzzlin’ us,” put in Ananias. “We 
doesn’t know.” 

“I thought you said a verdict was rendered!” 

“Yes, seh, dat sho wuz done.” 

I was beginning to lose patience; no wonder they were 
“studyin’ ’bout hit”—as they expressed it—if they always 
used such circumlocution! 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 237 

“What did the judge say?” I demanded. 

“Well, seh, Pse gwine to tell yo’ jest whut he said. 
He said us—me an’ Saffy—wuz bound by de law to pay 
dat ’oman for de difference in de ’mount ob milk de cow 
gib ’fo’ she busted ma ottermobil and atter she had bust 
hit.” 

“I congratulate you both. I had no idea you were go¬ 
ing to get off so easily.” 

Sapphira’s face showed no relief. “Yo’se a-thinkin’ 
hit’s gwine be easy! Well—dis nigger don’t.” 

“Why not?” 

“How in de name ob Gawd is I gwine know how much 
milk de cow gib ’fo’ she hit de ottermobil?” 

After this last thrust at my understanding, they left 
me—Sapphira to go to the kitchen to prepare a belated 
supper; Ananias to stand in deep reflection before the 
barn which held the wrecked flivver. 


CHAPTER XV 


June 12- 

It is almost dawn. I can see the grey stillness of 
morning creeping over the world; the leaves are stirring 
ever so slightly; a bird has given a soft little trill and 
fluttered in the tree. I have been sitting by the window 
all night; but now it will soon be day and I can go to her. 

The afternoon came on ominously; for an hour or two 
the heat was almost unbearable; then came a thunder 
shower that cooled the atmosphere and washed everything 
clean. The sunset was superb, banks upon banks of 
clouds tinged with radiant colors—just the sort of scene 
that must have inspired Wagner to write the last act of 
“Gotterdammerung.’ ’ 

I went over for Mrs. Bruce and Rose about half past 
seven, as I had asked them to drive out with me to the 
reception. Our first view of the Veterans’ Home was 
more like a fairy palace than a retreat for old men. 
Japanese lanterns were festooned along the upper and 
lower verandas- and from every window shone a broad 
shaft of light; there was a full moon, too, which added to 
the beauty of the picture and brought out distinctly the 
surrounding hills and majestic river. There was no 
breeze stirring; and the odors from the moist earth and 
vegetation made the air deliciously perfumed and balmy. 
Within, the rooms were banked with flowers; and in 
mine—the Penelope Claiborne room—was a large vase of 
238 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 239 

red asters. While I was wondering who had put them 
there, Miss Josie swept in. I used the word “swept” 
discreetly, for that is exactly what she did. The heavy 
black brocade, made quite full, actually stood alone, and 
with the fichu of old lace and a brooch of agates and 
moonstones, made a costume that was really quite hand¬ 
some and which the old lady carried off perfectly. 

I bent low over her hand and kissed it. “May I say, 
ma’am, that I never saw you looking better, ma’am.” 

She held my hand and looked at me through a short 
silence. “You’re a nice boy—to be thinking about an 
old woman like me. Rose told me all about it when she 
brought the dress out today. She said it was your no¬ 
tion—that you wanted me to wear it—and that I must 
not disappoint you. So you see—I’m wearing it!” 

“I thank you, ma’am, for the honor you do me. Your 
appearance makes the reception a success. You are so 
entirely in the picture.” 

She gave me a kinder glance than usual. “And you, I 
reckon, are getting in the picture—by degrees. Aren’t 
you?” 

“The question is—will you let me?” 

“On one condition.” 

“Name it.” 

“You know already. Now—I’m going to let you kiss 
me.” She turned her withered cheek to me. “Just to 
show you how much I want you to be a part of the 
picture.” 

Rose came rushing in just as the deed was done. She 
coughed to attract Miss Josie’s attention and sent me a 
delightfully roguish glance. 

“I’m awfully sorry to interrupt—” 


240 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“No excuses, my dear! You’re only jealous! You’ve 
been spying through the window, I’m sure.” 

“Indeed—” She stopped and looked at Miss Josie. 
“How darling you look!” 

“Shucks—you ought to have seen me i ’fo’ de war!’ 
What did you interrupt us for?” 

“Only four Robert E. Lee cakes have come and two 
Lady Baltimores. Oughtn’t there to have been—” 

Miss Josie flew from the room, the brocade beating 
against steps and walls as she descended to the pantry. 

Rose and I were left alone. I don’t think I shall de¬ 
scribe how she looked—at least not tonight. Not that 
I’m afraid of overdoing it, but it is impossible to put into 
cold pen strokes what she was really like. In the tar¬ 
latan dress, evanescent in its charm, she seemed made up 
of warm loveliness, a velvety softness in her eyes and 
hair and skin, a lingering perfume that came not from 
the stiff old-fashioned bouquet of jessamine nor from 
the wreath in her hair, but from herself alone in the full¬ 
ness of her fragrant youth. I have always known she 
was pretty—though I wouldn’t admit it for obvious rea¬ 
sons—but tonight it seems to have come over me for 
the first time that she is so much more than pretty, that 
she is really beautiful. 

She must have read my thoughts, for she blushed and 
drew back a little; and I caught a faint suggestion of 
weariness; then she smiled. “The Shack girls have 
come.” 

“What difference—” 

“Their dresses are too precious.” 

“Yours is a part of you—and the picture.” 

“The picture?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


241 


“The picture I’m climbing into.” 

She puckered her brows and grew serious. “I don’t 
understand.” 

“You will—one of these days.” 

Miss Josie’s voice came from the lower floor: ‘'Rose! 
Rose!” 

Left alone, I stood by the window looking towards the 
spot where she had talked to me of her ideal home. It 
was to be just there where the moon was shining on the 
magnolia tree—her home with old Morancey! It was a 
crime against God and Nature! 

Downstairs the reception committee had assembled and 
the tea girls were gathered in the dining room, giggling 
and showing off their dresses. The Shack girls, I must 
admit, had done it very well. Their frocks were per¬ 
fect and they had arranged their hair in curls that fell 
down on either side of their faces in a most fetching 
way—though, perhaps, not exactly becoming. The red 
and white ribbons, I am happy to say, were not in 
evidence. 

Mrs. Bruce and the Colonel made a point of introdu¬ 
cing me to everyone—Miss Josie was too busy directing 
to remember me—and I had the feeling, before the eve¬ 
ning was over, that I had met everyone who had taken 
part in the Civil War. One old gentleman with a wooden 
leg took me out on the lawn to tell me how he had lost 
it, the real leg, in the battle of Malvern Hill. Before he 
got through another one joined us, took up where the 
first had left off and carried us into a long account of his 
experiences at Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain. 
When they got to talking about the battle above the 
clouds, I thought they had switched off to aeroplanes and 


242 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


felt more at home; but when a heated argument ensued 
as to whether Rosecrans or Bragg had the most men, I 
took advantage of a chance to escape back to the house. 
Here I fell into the arms of an old lady who wanted to 
tell me, without any leading up to the subject, of her ex¬ 
perience with General Lee. 

‘T admire him immensely,” I beamed on her. “I have 
a smashing picture of him in my drawing room. He 
must have been a strikingly handsome man.” 

“Which Lee are you talking about?” my new friend 
asked. 

“Of course the only one—General Robert E. Lee!” I 
replied with astonishment. For once I was sure of the 
ground. 

“Indeed! I am speaking of General Fitzhugh Lee!” 

“Fitzhugh Lee! I haven’t got to him yet. What did 
he do?” 

She put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and looked 
me over. “I beg your pardon—but where are you 
from?” 

I told her—which apparently explained everything. 

“You will read about him in the battle of Five Forks,” 
she went on as calmly as though there had been no in¬ 
terruption. “But what I was going to tell you was that 
after the war he accepted the position of Consul-General 
to Cuba. I met him in New Orleans on his way to 
Havana and asked him how he could bring himself to 
hold a position under a government he had fought against 
—and above everything else how he felt when he put on 
that blue uniform that his official position demanded. 
He told me he hadn’t yet put on the uniform—he had 
only ordered it from the tailor—and that he had told his 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 243 

wife when it came not to leave it in his room over night 
for fear he might wake up and shoot holes in it.” 

But this is not half. What I have heard tonight would 
fill a volume. 

Miss Shack insisted that I should go in the dining 
room to see the remarkable collection of cakes displayed 
on the table, and particularly an enormous charlotte russe 
made by the Archer girls which was decorated across 
the top with “Veterans’ Home” done in deep red icing. 
I was given a saucer of ice cream in one hand, in the 
other was thrust a plate containing a slice of the famous 
Robert E. Lee cake, and then, in this helpless condition, 
Miss Shack slipped her arm through mine and nodded 
towards the veranda, saying it was too perfect a night 
to stay in doors, that she must get a breath of fresh air. 
While I stood and tried to eat—a barbaric thing to make 
one do—she talked volubly about Mary and Doug’s mar¬ 
riage; but to save me, I couldn’t get interested in the 
marital felicity of cinema stars when the sound of ex¬ 
ploding shells was still in my ears and my brain was 
teeming with personal recollections of battle, murder 
and sudden death. Her subject was entirely too much of 
today, though I was fully aware she was doing her best 
to be agreeable and talk about things she thought in¬ 
terested me. v 

“You must be devastatingly bored down here,” she 
said in a confidentially lowered voice. “We are so 
provincial.” 

It was a good opening to pay her a compliment, which 
I did. 

“Awfully nice of you to say that. Of course we 
travel a great deal—my sister and I—and we know some- 


244 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


thing of what is going on in the world and how things 
are done. But you—who have lived always in Paris— 
you must find most of the people here dreadful bores.” 

“It is quite the other way. I find all of them exceed¬ 
ingly interesting.” 

“But all this Civil War talk—like tonight!” She 
swept her hand in a gesture of irritation. “You’d never 
think, to hear them talk, that the world had recently been 
through something that absolutely puts their little war 
off the map. I know one old lady here who says she took 
no interest in the World War—that it couldn’t possibly 
have been anything by comparison with what she went 
through as a girl.” 

“You forget it meant a great deal to them.” 

“But it was settled more than half a century ago.” 

“Yes—but they are standing in the dusk of it still; 
and sometimes, in the twilight, things appear more vivid 
because one knows they will soon be gone forever.” 

She expressed surprise, even doubt of my sincerity, 
which increased my irritation. Why couldn’t she see 
the sacred fire of this tradition instead of being ashamed 
of it! 

She took refuge in a laugh—that threadbare refuge 
of women—and began humming softly “Where the Bam¬ 
boo Babies Grow.” Then, with a toss of the head: “I 
see—you have fallen under the influence of the Bruces. 
Is that what you and Rose talk about so much?” 

“Do we talk so much about anything ? I was unaware 
of it.” 

Again a laugh, less natural than the first. “Now don’t 
try to deny it.” 

“Deny what, Miss Shack?” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 245 

“Innocent man! Everyone in town is talking about it. 
We all know that you spend every afternoon with Rose, 
that you come out here on the hill and read together, that 
she plays for you by the hour; in fact, everybody’s won¬ 
dering how long Colonel Morancey is going to put up 
with it.” 

I found myself growing furious. She had no right 
to discuss what Rose and I did—and to tell me about it 
was nothing short of insolence. With a great effort I 
kept silent and when sure of myself suggested that we 
go back into the house. 

“You didn’t like what I said.” 

“Would that keep you from saying it?” I retorted. 

“If you denied it—yes.” 

This was preposterous. I turned abruptly and faced 
her. “My dear Miss Shack, if you mean to insinuate 
that anything beside friendship exists between Miss 
Bruce and me, I do deny it. She is too good a friend of 
mine—and so is Colonel Morancey—for any such thing 
as you suggest to be possible.” 

Rose passed at this moment, coming from just behind 
us with an old man for whom she was seeking a chair. 
She passed on without giving a sign of having heard us. 

Miss Shack touched my arm. “I wonder if she was 
listening—if she heard us!” 

“Heard you —you mean,” I could not resist saying. 

“Well,” with a toss of the head, “I only said what 
everybody else is saying!” 

We separated at the door; and I went out on the lawn 
to smoke, passing my two old friends still deep in the 
glories of war. They were using their sticks to denote 
the position of the armies, and would no doubt use them 


246 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


on each other a little later, judging from the heat of the 
argument. Once I caught a sentence fairly hurled out 
of the night: “If Davis had thought a little more of 
Johnston and less of Lee, we never would have sur¬ 
rendered.” I passed on to a spot that appeared free from 
conflict. 

While I stood alone looking off to the little town 
among its protecting hills, its trees, and its great river, 
then back to the gaily lighted house from which the 
sounds of “Dixie” were coming—sung en masse by the 
whole gathering—I began to realize what my cousin had 
meant by that clause in her will. She must have been a 
far-seeing person; and she evidently understood that love 
of a country comes only after one knows it and compre¬ 
hends what it represents. I am beginning to see that al¬ 
ready; and if I have gained this much in a few weeks, 
how much more I will have understood in five years! 
Paris and my life there has grown tawdry in my memory; 
it is beginning to take on the aspect of glittering spangles 
which I am just beginning to find out are made not of 
gold but of shoddy tinsel. This getting in touch with 
people and things, in a way that I have never done be¬ 
fore, is doing me good. If I had some other object for 
remaining, some work that would fill my days, I believe 
I could really be quite happy here. 

I saw Rose come down the steps of the veranda alone, 
as if looking for someone. When I crossed the lawn 
she called to me. 

“Mother is tired out—and wants to go home. May 
Nias take her?” 

“Of course. I’ll go find him. And you?” 

“No—I shall stay until the end.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


247 


I found Ananias asleep on the box as usual; and a 
little later had Mrs. Bruce on her way home. Others 
began to leave soon; and within an hour Miss 
Josie, Rose and I and some servants were the only ones 
left. 

Miss Josie sat down in the hall and watched the lights 
go out one by one. The triumph of success beamed in 
her eyes and left no place for fatigue. 

“Are you satisfied, ma’am?” I asked, smiling at the 
brave old lady. 

“Perfectly,” she replied. “I reckon it couldn’t have 
been better. And do you know, young man, some peo¬ 
ple had the impertinence to tell me I never looked better?” 

“Pm sure you couldn’t, Miss Josie,” Rose put in. 

“My dear—that’s all you know about it. When 
Colonel Peyton was a-courting me, he said I was the 
handsomest lass in the whole of Dixieland. Now just 
look at me! Oh well—sufficient unto the day!” 

We drove home together, the three of us, or the four 
of us—including Ananias—and first put Miss Josie out 
at her gate. Left alone with her, I glanced at Rose be¬ 
side me and saw that exhausted look had hold of her 
again. 

“You’ve been overdoing it,” I said. “You’re tired.” 

“A little—it’s nothing.” She turned towards me. “I 
heard what Miss Shack said to you.” 

“Pm sorry. It is nothing.” 

“Oh—I don’t mind! It’s only of him I’m thinking. 
I don’t want him to hear it.” 

I said nothing. What difference could it make to him 
and why should she bother about it! 

“You’re always thinking of others,” I complained, 


248 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


after a long silence. “You ought to think of yourself 
more.” 

“You think of others—yes, you know you do! It 
was very thoughtful of you to give Miss Josie that 
dress.” Then, with a slightly apologetic tone in her 
voice: “If you don’t mind—I think it might be better 
for us to stop seeing each other so often.” 

I said nothing. 

“Don’t you think it would be better ?” 

“Rose!” 

She drew further to her side of the seat. “I wouldn’t 
have him think—for anything in the world—that it was 
true. You see—it means so much to him”—she laughed 
a little, a laugh I had never heard before—“and of course 
it doesn’t mean anything to us.” 

I watched her profile—it was all I could see of her— 
and remained silent. We stopped at her gate and I 
went up to the porch with her, helping her look for the 
night key which her mother had put under the doormat. 
The night was strangely still; there was barely a sound 
except that elusive vibration of stillness which forces it¬ 
self upon the consciousness during the small hours of 
the night. The moon was far down in the west. 

“Goodnight.” She put her cool soft hand in mine. 
“If I have hurt you—please see that it is only to keep 
from hurting him. Sometimes—we must forget our¬ 
selves for others. Goodnight.” 

She drew her hand quickly from mine and stepped 
through the half open door. 

It was useless to go to bed; sleep was never farther 
from me; so I drew up a chair to the open window and 
sat down, forgetting even to light a cigarette. I do not 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 249 

know why I should have expected her to say more than 
that, but I did; and I was heartily miserable. While I 
sat there it came to me very clearly that all my reasoning 
about the charm of the place, its historic interest, its tradi¬ 
tion, was all fallacy. What would it be without her? 
What did anything here mean but that it was a part of 
her. It was entirely a matter of her—of her alone. And 
now—I was not to see her because an old dub who should 
have died ten years ago might get sensitive about it! 

“Saffy—Saffee!” 

I sprang out of the chair. Was I dreaming! Surely 
the voice—her voice—came from just beyond the win¬ 
dow. I leaned out and saw indistinctly a white figure 
standing before the servants’ house. 

“Saffy—Saffee!” Again the whispered sound. An¬ 
other moment and I had sprung out of the window and 
was beside her. 

“Is something the matter? Do you want Sapphira?” 

She started when she found me beside her and made 
a movement as if to run away. I put out my hand, 
grasped hers and detained her. 

“Won’t you please tell me what you want?” 

“I—I want Saffy,” she answered—and it seemed to 
me that she was either on the point of laughing or cry¬ 
ing, I couldn’t tell which. 

“Then—if you’ll wait a moment—I’ll try to rouse 
her.” 

To my repeated knocks Ananias came from the barn, 
where he was unharnessing the horses, and explained, 
when asked for Sapphira, that she had gone to spend the 
night with “her aunt’s mother's sister-in-law.” 

I turned back to Rose, who was standing all this time 


250 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

in such deep shadow that I could barely see her. “You 
see—it looks rather hopeless. Can’t either Ananias or 
I do something?” 

At this she laughed quite frankly and turned away. 
“You certainly can’t—either one of you!” she threw back 
across her shoulder and faded away towards the hedge. 

Something impelled me to follow her. I had to run 
to catch her; and when I did we were both out of breath. 

“You’ve got to tell me what you want,” I insisted. 

“Never!” 

“Then I won’t let you go.” 

We faced each other, our eyes very close, her hands 
tightly held in mine. 

“I mean it!” I repeated. 

She apparently saw my determination, looked about 
for some means of escape and, finding none, accepted the 
inevitable. 

“Mother has gone to bed,” she said in a hurried whis¬ 
per. “I’m afraid she’s already asleep—and I don’t 
want to awaken her—and I can’t get my dress unhooked 
in the back. The tarlatan is all caught in the hooks.” 

I laughed this time. “Why under the sun didn’t you 
tell me that. Of course I can do it.” 

“You! Why you wouldn’t know how!” 

“If you’ll turn round I’ll show you.” 

She looked at me, lowered her head and actually 
shook with suppressed laughter. 

“Aren’t you willing to let me try?” 

She turned slowly, I released her hands and she put 
them on the stubborn hooks. “There are only two I 
can’t reach—right here where my fingers are. They 
oughtn’t to be hard to undo.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 251 


They were though, for my wretched fingers trembled 
so that I couldn’t do anything. 

“Perhaps—if we go in the hall you—” 

“No! Stand still!” I commanded. 

I made a final effort to control myself, caught both 
sides of the waist and undid the hooks. Then, my hands 
still holding to the tarlatan of the dress, I turned her 
quickly towards me and put both arms round her. She 
had no chance to pull away from me and the next mo¬ 
ment I had put my lips on hers and held them there— 
and for a bare second she leaned against me, her heart 
beating against mine. Then she drew away and I saw 
tears running down her cheeks. 

“Rose—it is because I love you!” 

She did not answer; and in another moment she was 
gone. 

I am very happy—and a little miserable, too, when I 
think of past years which have been so utterly wasted— 
and of some incidents which I would give much not to 
have taken place. I suppose all men feel this way when 
they love with all that is best and pure in them. I am 
trying to think only of the future and the happiness it 
holds for me—but some bitterness of the past will creep 
in. I have been out on the veranda several times and 
looked at the little drab cottage that shelters her; it has 
become a chateau to me now. I wonder if she is sleep¬ 
ing! It seems incredible—with my thoughts so full of 
her, my heart thumping out my love on the stillness of 
the night. Surely she must be conscious of it! 

Now—the dawn is coming! It is day—and I can go 
to her! 


CHAPTER XVI 


June 13- 

It was Sunday morning. The church bells were ring¬ 
ing, the sun was shining, the whole world was alive with 
joyousness. I have never seen such a beautiful morn¬ 
ing. At nine o’clock, having donned white—as Petrarch 
always did when he called on Laura—I went over to her 
house and rang the bell. I waited perhaps a whole min¬ 
ute—though it seemed an hour—and finally she came 
herself, dressed for Sunday School with a book and some 
music in her hand. She stopped when she saw me and 
at first turned pale, then blushed and made a step back¬ 
wards as though she would not speak to me. I entered 
the hall and went up to her and attempted to take her 
hand; but she would not let me have it. 

“I have come to tell you something,” I began in a 
stammering sort of way. The expression in her eyes as 
they met mine was so miserable and full of wounded 
feeling that it silenced me. 

“There is nothing to say,” she murmured. 

“Only this—that I love you.” 

She drew further away at this, her color gone, her 
eyes more miserable and pleading than ever. 

“You must not say that to me!” 

“Why not?” 

“You know I am engaged to be married.” 

“It must not be. You do not love him.” 

25 2 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 253 


She flushed and lifted her head slightly. “Have I 
given you any right to say that?” 

A clock struck nine times as we stood facing each 
other, her eyes lowered, mine fastened on her. She drew 
herself up slowly and finally looked at me. 

“I cannot talk to you any longer. I must go. 
Please—please excuse me.” 

I held out my hands. “Rose—don’t be cruel! Tell 
me—” 

“What do you want to know?” 

“I want you to say that you know I love you—that 
you love me. Don’t bring up that impossible marriage 
again. I will make it all right with Morancey.” 

She drew her brows together and went towards the 
door. “Pm sorry you don’t think I love him. I didn’t 
mean to give you that impression. You must believe 
me —for we can’t meet again after this. I’m sorry, too, 
that you said what you did.” 

I followed her on to the veranda. “You aren’t go¬ 
ing!” I gasped. 

“Yes. Goodby.” 

“This is your answer?” 

“There is nothing more for me to say.” 

“You mean that?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then I’m as equally determined! This marriage 
shall not take place! I know a way to stop it.” 

She swung round, looked at me quickly, then glanced 
in the hall. “What do you mean?” 

“Morancey told me the terms of your contract. 
Your mother does not know why you are marrying him.” 

“What terms do you mean ?” 


254 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“The way Morancey has helped you.” 

“You will tell my mother that!” 

“Yes.” 

“You know what that will mean? She will give up 
this house—we shall be absolutely destitute—we have 
no place to go! It would be just like murdering her!” 

“I will do anything to save you from this marriage.” 

“It would be dishonorable for you to tell her.” 

“Not so much as your marriage will be.” 

She saw my determination and lowered her head, her 
fingers clasping and unclasping the roll of music. 
Finally, she laid the music down deliberately, took off 
her hat, indicated a chair for me to take and sank down 
in the one beside it. The resolution in her face fright¬ 
ened me; all the gentleness had gone out of it, leaving it 
perfectly set and white. Her lips were pressed firmly 
together, one tight against the other, and her eyes were 
darker than I had ever seen them. I think she realized 
that I must be dealt with at once and that the task was 
one that demanded all her resources. In a way her 
presence chilled me; and yet I was filled with admiration, 
for she had suddenly leapt from the soft, feminine crea¬ 
ture of the night before into a fully developed woman 
who could battle for what she felt was right. Seeing 
her this way I realized, in a flash, that tradition had been 
preparing her for just such a moment. 

With hands clasped in her lap, she remained silent, 
her expression one of deep thought. At last she looked 
up at me. “What is it you want me to do ?” 

“Rose—don’t act this way l Can’t you see that I love 
you—the first time I have ever loved anyone! Probably 
you have known it all along. It seems to me that I 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 255 

have been loving you always; yet—I did not fully realize 
it until last night.” 

“Please—please don’t.” She moved restlessly. “Only 
tell me what you want me to do.” 

“I want you to marry me.” 

“Even if I don’t love you?” 

“Rose—look at me.” 

Her glance still rested on her hands, and she gave no 
reply either by word or gesture. 

“You are afraid to look at me and say that.” 

Then her eyes lifted and met mine, so full of the suf¬ 
fering that one sees in the eyes of dumb animals that my 
heart tightened with a reflection of her suffering. 

“Rose—I can’t stand it! Don’t look at me that way! 
Be honest with me, dear. It will be so much easier for 
us both.” 

Her hands trembled violently; but she mastered them. 
“You insist upon making me suffer,” she began with a no 
longer steady voice. “Yet you must know that you are 
mistaken. Is it such a pleasure for you to see me endure 
this?” 

“Anything is better than the other!” 

A silence fell between us. It is odd how, in such 
moments, one takes full note of small incidents. I re¬ 
member distinctly seeing Ananias come down the walk 
in front of my house and begin sweeping; I even noticed 
that the cap he wore was one I had given him and looked 
ludicrously rakish on his grey hair. 

“I wish I could make you see how wrong you are,’ 
her voice came steady once more, yet full of a pleading 
that made my heart go out in pity to her. “If you would 
only see it as I do—if you—” 


256 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“It’s useless, Rose. I can only see it as something 
too horrible to endure. I will do anything to save you. 
I will save you!” 

For a second her eyes met mine. “I do not want to 
be saved—as you call it.” 

“You don’t know what you are saying! You are 
neither honest with yourself—nor with me.” 

After a pause, she asked abruptly: “Why did he tell 
you?” 

“Perhaps he didn’t intend to. I don’t think he knew 
exactly that he was telling me so much.” 

I saw her shudder; and it took all my self control to 
keep from taking her in my arms and telling her to 
leave it all to me to settle. But this would have done 
no good. I had to reason it out with her, convince her 
through her mind and not her heart; and this thought 
made me feel that it was necessary to be a bit brutal. 
“He even put the blame on you—said you had suggested 
it.” 

“He was right—I did.” 

“You did not know what it meant then. You were 
too young.” 

“I have never been too young to understand.” 

“He said he would release you from your promise if 
you asked him.” 

There was a flash in her eyes that died out before it 
reached me. “When was this?” 

“The first week after I came here.” 

“Since then—you have talked about it?” 

“That was the only time. I know he meant it—and 
I feel that he will see it as we do when you make it clear 
to him. He is a man of honor and a gentleman. He 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 257 

doesn’t know that you don’t love him; he looks upon this 
marriage as a great happiness for you. He thinks he 
can give you so much that most women must have to be 
happy—the things that mean nothing to you. Don’t you 
see? His life is over—he can’t live much longer—and 
he thinks all this is going to make you happy. Let him 
make you happy, Rose! Don’t let him be blinded into 
thinking that marrying you is the way!” 

She listened patiently to this outburst, her face all the 
time settling into a determined expression that drove me 
on and on. I knew I was now fighting against some new 
resolution—and battling in vain. 

“Just because he has only these few years to live—is 
it not my chance to do something for him in return for 
all he has done for me—to make his last years happy! 
No—I know what is my duty!” 

“Ah—then you admit it is a duty that makes you 
doit!” 

“No—I do not! But beyond my love for him—I do 
feel duty. You don’t realize what he has done for me— 
what he has meant in my life! He saved my mother— 
and made it possible for her to be happy. Is that not 
enough to make me love him! You speak of being hon¬ 
est—then see it as I do and you will understand. Be 
honest, too, and tell me that you know I am right!” 

“I know you feel a certain gratitude to him for what 
he has done; but gratitude and love are different things. 
You are persuading yourself—and trying to persuade me 
—that you love him. You may even love him in a 
way—but not in the way a woman should to make mar¬ 
riage a sacrament.” 

“No—no—no! You are wrong!” 


258 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“Rose—you have told me all this with your eyes. 
The first evening I spent here in your house, I saw that 
look of dread in them. You do dread it; the idea is 
repulsive to you as it is to me; it is ruining the little 
happiness you have—and God knows that is little enough! 
Here I am to help you—and you won’t let me. Can’t 
you trust me a little?” 

“I trust you—yes. But you are so woefully mistaken. 
If I have appeared unhappy at times—it was only natural. 
I have always had responsibilities—and it is not my 
nature to be gay. You have imagined things that don’t 
exist.” 

“Rose, for God’s sake, don’t lie to me!” I cried des¬ 
perately. “I am miserable enough without that!” 

She stood up, the strength of her determination sud¬ 
denly gone and leaving her once more a gentle, feminine 
creature, weak with emotion. “I cannot listen to you 
any longer. You are insulting me now.” 

“I am fighting for you, Rose—against yourself. If 
you will only trust me a little! Let me go to him and 
tell him everything. As for what he has done, I can 
wipe that out with a stroke of the pen. I can pay him 
back every cent!” 

She looked at me as if I were a complete stranger. 
“How can you say such a thing! The money is nothing 
to him. There is only one way for me to show him my 
love and I will do that.” 

“You are determined?” 

“Yes.” 

“Nothing I can do will change you?” 

“No.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 259 


I folded my arms with resolve. “May I see your 
mother now?” 

She put her hand against the wall; I thought she was 
going to faint. “Yes—I’ll call her. But, before you 
tell her—remember that you will bring more suffering 
on me than I can bear. It will not change my feeling— 
except for you. I have thought of you as honorable— 
I believed you were telling me the truth just now—when 
you said you loved me. This will prove that I was woe¬ 
fully mistaken. Think a moment before—before you do 
what you will be ashamed of afterwards. I am a poor, 
defenseless girl. I can say no more. You can help me 

_or ruin me. When you think that I do not love Colonel 

Morancey—you are mistaken. I do love him and I do 
not love you.” She stood squarely before me, her eyes 
steadily on mine. “I am speaking the absolute truth. 
If you have any feeling of consideration at all for me— 
you will believe me—and go away.” 

I stepped back from her, bewildered, thoroughly at 
sea and conscious that I was weakening hopelessly. In 
desperation and with a cold sensation, almost like a child 
who has been suddenly terrified, I found myself reach¬ 
ing for my hat. When I looked up again I saw that she 
had gone to the door and was standing there with her 
back to me. I went towards her uncertainly and held out 
my hand. 

“Goodby.” 

She refused my hand. 

“We shall not meet again. I’ll show my consider¬ 
ation—as you call it. I’m going to clear out tonight, 
I suppose this is a sort of Fate driving me back to Pans.” 


2 6o that late unpleasantness 


I tried to smile and failed. “I’m glad, though, you came 
into my life. It has made me see things differently. I 
think—I’m sure—I shall be a very different man from 
now on—and I’m going to try to be a better one. I was 
foolish to think you loved me. I see now how impossible 
it was. Goodby.” 

She turned swiftly and laid her hand in mine. Tears 
were streaming down her face. “Don’t say anything 
more—please. I—I—” She moved away, sank into 
a chair near the door, covered her face with her hands 
and sobbed. I tried not to follow her; and ended by fall¬ 
ing on my knees beside her chair. 

“Rose—Rose! Is there no hope for me?” 

As I said this, Mrs. Bruce came into the hall and 
stopped short in amazement at the scene we presented. 

“What is it!” she exclaimed. “Has something hap¬ 
pened? Rose—what is the matter?” 

I rose to my feet and waited, with a last lingering 
hope, for her to speak. Through her hands the words 
came brokenly: “Tell him to go, Mother—tell him 
to go!” 

Mrs. Bruce looked at me for explanation. “I have 
just told her that I love her,” I said quickly, “and asked 
her to marry me.” 

The old lady’s face was almost pitiful in its amaze¬ 
ment. “And she—” 

“Has told me that she is going to marry Colonel 
Morancey.” 

Here Rose’s words broke once more upon me, so plead¬ 
ing that I waited no longer: “Please—please—go—” 

So this is to be the end of my sojourn in Cottonville. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 261 


My trunks are packed and I have an hour left before 
going to the train. 

After leaving Rose I came back here and paced my 
rooms for hours, trying to realize that everything had 
changed for me, that my life was never more to be the 
same and that the necessity of immediately reaching a 
decision was before me. It was impossible to think of 
continuing to live here beside her, seeing her every day— 
if only from a distance—and feeling as I did towards 
her. And yet—somehow I didn’t want to go. It was a 
desperate strait. It is the first time I have ever craved 
anything with my whole mind and body and seen no 
hope of success. I used to look forward, in moments of 
discouragement, to what the future had in store for me; 
now —x see nothing before, me but emptiness, an endless 
road of hopeless longing. Strange that this should have 
come to me with so little warning; and to come, too, at 
a time of life when it will be impossible ever to outgrow 
it! I have tried to reason out my condition as being that 
of infatuation, as pity for an unhappy girl who appealed 
to my sympathies and made me think it was love. I 
have said that these surroundings had much to do with 
it and that, away from them, I would soon feel differ¬ 
ently. Yet I have found no comfort in such arguments, 
they are all lies. I know perfectly well, in the depths of 
my heart—where things live even when we try to murder 
them—that I shall love her always; and that life with¬ 
out her will always be a drear, half-hearted sort of affair. 
In the end I saw that I must clear out; the sooner 
the better for both of us. Having reached this 
conclusion plans shaped themselves with astounding 
rapidity. 


262 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


The first thing to do was to see Morancey and arrange 
about my departure. With this in view I counted over 
the hundred dollar bills I had found in my cousin’s 
Bible and less important books and was pleased to find 
there were, in all, forty-five of them. This would more 
than cover the amount I had used and leave me some¬ 
thing to get back to Paris on. Whether I should tell 
him or not from what source I had derived this amount 
worried me a little on my way to him, though in the end 
I came to the conclusion that as I was giving up every¬ 
thing mentioned in the will, I surely had the right to keep 
what had come to me beyond that. It seemed to be the 
hand of Providence extended to assist me after having 
thrown me into this noisome pit. 

I found the Colonel in bed reading the morning paper. 
He looked rather unkempt in bed, almost repulsively 
so, with the evidences of his age so unashamedly ex¬ 
posed. 

“Hello!” he cried out cheerily. “What in the deuce 
got you out so early?” 

I hated him at that moment with a violence new to me; 
even Nannette would have called it pure Gallic. Con¬ 
trolling myself, I sat down as far away from the bed as 
possible. 

“I’m going to leave tonight, Colonel Morancey.” 

He whistled in surprise and shot a glance at me. 
“What’s up ? I thought you had decided to stick it out! 
To tell you the truth, I thought we were on the road to 
making a first rate Southerner out of you.” 

“I think you have done that. I can even appreciate 
my cousin’s good sense in insisting upon my living here. 
I feel now as though I understood some of the problems 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 263 

of your country—of its people—of its sentiments; but 
—I am going to leave it.” 

The old fellow jumped out of bed and stood in the 
middle of the floor. He wears the old-fashioned night 
shirt slit up the side through which his skinny legs 
showed. “You can’t go now! You’ve got to stay!” 

“That is what I’ve come to discuss with you. I have 
enough money to pay back every penny I’ve used.” 

He was in the act of getting a shirt over his head— 
these also were cut in the old-fashioned way—and, ar¬ 
rested by my words, his grey head peered out at me 
through the bosom of the shirt exactly like that of an 
old satyr. “Inherited another estate?” 

“No—but I have got hold of four thousand five hun¬ 
dred dollars.” I drew out my pocketbook and counted 
the bills. “I think this will quite cover what I have 
drawn; won’t it?” 

He did not answer, only looked at the bills in my hand 
with a strange, puzzled expression. Finally he put out 
his hand, took one, looked it over carefully then threw 
it back on the table. 

“Where d’you find them?” he asked, turning his back 
to me and going to a dressing table. In the glass I saw 
his face working convulsively, either from excitement or 
amusement, I couldn’t exactly decide. 

“That is unimportant,” I answered. “There’s the 
money.” 

“That,” he came back towards me, “isn’t worth the 
paper it’s printed on.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Haven’t you examined them?” 

“No—not carefully.” 


264 that late unpleasantness 


“Well—you’d better. That’s Confederate money.” 

“You mean—” 

“Exactly.” He turned back to the dressing table and 
began lathering his face. I was glad of this—it gave me 
a few moments to gather my scattered wits—but the 
casual way in which he went on discussing the question 
almost drove me mad. “You see—when our cause 
failed, our Treasury was no good; in fact, that money 
was worthless long before the war was over. When the 
Southern states seceded and chose Jeff Davis for presi¬ 
dent, all the other states wanted to be represented in his 
cabinet and South Carolina insisted that Memminger be 
made Secretary of the Treasury. He was one of the 
finest fellows in the world—but he didn’t have much 
foresight. I’m inclined to attribute the failure of our 
cause to the bungling of our finances. If Memminger 
had acted on the suggestion made at the time we could 
have paid every one of those notes you’ve got in your 
hand there—in gold too.” 

He sharpened his razor with raucous energy. The 
tautness of the strop was like my own snapping nerves. 

“You see—it was this way. When the war broke out, 
there were three million bales of cotton in the South— 
plantation bales weighing four hundred pounds each. 
Now—the plan was that the Confederate Treasury should 
buy this cotton from the planters, pay them ten cents a 
pound for it and export it at once to Europe as security— 
and hold it there until the price went up; which it was 
bound to do as most of it was raised by us and during 
the war there was no time to produce more. As a matter 
of fact, the price did go up to over a dollar a pound be¬ 
fore the end of the war—just as it did during this last 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 265 

World War. If we had done this, you see, we would 
have had cash in Europe amounting to more than a thou¬ 
sand million dollars. That would have been all we 
needed to carry on the war twice as long as it lasted. 
It would have had considerable influence on Yankee thrift, 
too; wouldn’t it? It might have made them think we 
were worth being conquerors!” 

Here he laughed boisterously and splattered his shirt 
with suds. I hoped this might put an end to the disser¬ 
tation; but—never! Nothing would have stopped him 
now. 

“But—Memminger was too careful. It was new busi¬ 
ness to him—as it was to all of us—and delay brought 
our ruin. When we had made up our minds, the Union 
fleet had become too strong, the blockade was on and 
planters preferred then to hold their cotton themselves. 
Everybody had begun to lose faith in our currency.” 

I rose. It was impossible to listen any longer. “Then 
it’s worth nothing,” I cut in, twisting the notes in my 
hand. It was evident I was not going to have anything 
left to stand upon that day. 

“Not a damn cent—except as souvenirs.” 

I struck a match and held it to one of the bills. In a 
moment all of them were in flames and I threw them into 
the grate. 

He stopped shaving to watch this process.' “Think of 
the thousands of others who have done just what you are 
doing now; only—it was their all.” 

“It’s also my all.” And as I turned away I noticed 
there was a bottle of whiskey on the table. I poured 
out some in a glass and swallowed it quickly. Colonel 
Morancey watched me with a broad smile. 


266 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“It won’t do you any harm; it may do you lots of 
good.” 

“The whiskey?” 

“Finding out all these things about us—our trials and 
tribulations—knowing what we went through. Now— 
sit down and tell me what you’re bothering about.” 

I’m sure I shall never be able to explain to myself or 
anyone else the extraordinary conversation that followed; 
it must have been due to my nervous condition or the 
drink of whiskey I had foolishly gulped down. No mat¬ 
ter what it was, suffice it to say that when the Colonel 
asked me what was troubling me I found nothing better 
to do than to blurt out in the most astounding way: 
“I’m in love with Rose.” 

His reception of the statement was quite as remarkable 
as the statement itself; he threw back his head and 
laughed heartily. “My dear boy—that’s only natural! 
Of course you love her. Everybody does who knows 
her. That’s nothing serious. You’re too young for 
that.” 

At this I grew livid. “Is thirty so young? It seems 
to me a more suitable age for love than seventy.” 

“Tut—tut! Don’t go so fast. If that’s all that’s 
driving you away—well—go for a few months and come 
back entirely cured.” 

“Please don’t jest. This is the only serious thing that 
has ever come into my life—and it has gone against me.” 

At this he became grave. “How do you mean?” 

“She has refused me.” 

“You told her you loved her!” 

I nodded. 

“You knew she was going to marry me this autumn!” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 267 

“I wanted to break that up. I thought she didn’t love 
you.” 

“Did she say that ?” 

“No—I couldn’t make her say it. She’s too—too 
loyal.” 

He listened calmly enough and was silent a few mo¬ 
ments after I had finished; then he rose slowly: “Per¬ 
haps it is better for you to go away—at least for the 
present.” 

“It will be for good.” 

“No—I think you will come back.” 

“Never!” 

He put his hand on my shoulder. “My dear boy—I 
was young once. It’s only when we are old that we 
remember.” 

He walked with me to the door. Suddenly I thought 
of the old man in the attic. “You will take care of 
everything as formerly?” 

“Yes—don’t think of that for a moment. I’ll go there 
once or twice a week.” He paused. “Perhaps I’ll not 
see you again—except at the depot. I’ll see you off— 
yes—yes—of course. Don’t do anything hot-headed— 
and come back this autumn.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


June 13- 

I returned home with a lagging step; the sun beat 
down upon me and brought out unnoticed streams of 
perspiration. I passed some acquaintances coming from 
church and Fm sure my return of their friendly greetings 
must have shown them plainly the condition I was in. 

On the lawn I found Lucretia Borgia lying on her back 
in the sunlight. The development of her vanity is shock¬ 
ing. Walking on aimlessly I came to the garden where 
the larkspur has bloomed itself out and golden glow and 
phlox and deep crimson roses are coming into their hot 
glory. 

Seeing me there, Sapphira deserted the kitchen to come 
out and show me how rapidly the figs were ripening; a 
month more and I should have a plate of them for each 
meal, covered with crushed ice and sugar and rich cream 
—a delicacy I have never tasted and never will now. 

“I’se gwine to put up ’nough fig preserves to last two 
years runnin’,” she said proudly. “An’ ef yo’ has a mind 
to do hit, seh, I’d lak mightly to hab some of dem new¬ 
fangled jars wid glass tops.” 

‘‘Have what you want, Sapphira,” I answered gloom¬ 
ily. “Only tell the Colonel to get them for you. I’m 
going away.” 

“Whar’s yo’ gwine to, seh?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Fur long?” 


268 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 269 

“Forever.” 

She stared at me in amazement, then lifted her voice 
and called Ananias. “Nias—nigger! Nias, come heah 
quick.” 

Ananias appeared at the window of his room. “Whut’s 
de matter wid yo’, ’oman ?” 

“Come heah! De leetle massa’s gwine to leab us!” 

Joining us hastily, the old fellow looked to me for 
explanation. 

“He say he’s gwine fur good,” Sapphira continued in 
a high voice. 

Their faces showed so plainly their consternation and 
disappointment that my heart went out to them more 
than ever. 

“Yo’ doesn’t lak us down heah?” Ananias asked in a 
voice of sincere regret. 

“It isn’t that—it’s more that I like you too much.” 

“Hit’s sho dat way wid us, seh—’specially since we’se 
done got used to yo’ ways. We lubs yo’—dat sho’ is de 
truf. An’ whut’s we po’ niggers gwine to do widout yo’ ?” 

“You’ve done without me before. You’ll get along as 
you always have; the Colonel will see to that. You must 
keep up the place. Don’t let it go to weed. Get the 
flivver painted and done up as good as new—and give 
Lucretia Borgia all she can eat.” 

“Shucks! Alius talkin’ ’bout dat cat!” Sapphira burst 
out. “I neber did lak her, nohow. Hit’s her face 
dat’s voodood us. Dat’s de reason yo’se gwine to leab 
us. Don’t tell me ’bout takin’ up wid strange cats! I 
ain’t got no use fur dem.” 

I smiled over this outburst and turned towards the 
house. “But you must be good to her for my sake.” 


270 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

Sapphira followed me to the door. “Sho, dough, seh, 
yo’se gwine to come back. Tell dis ole nigger de truf.” 

“No, Sapphira, I’m going for good.” 

She remained beside me with her head lowered in 
thought; then she looked up with an expression of great 
perplexity. “Whut’s Miss Rosie gwine to do widout 
yo’?” 

“She’s going to marry the Colonel.” 

Her eyes remained steadily on mine; and through the 
changes of her mobile countenance I could see she was 
struggling towards the truth. At last she spoke it out 
quite simply, with a cadence in her voice that was perfect 
in its pity and sympathy. 

“Hits fur dat, den, dat’s yo’se gwine away! An’ she 
a-lubin yo’ all de time! Ain’t yo’ been knowin’ dat?” 

I shook my head, though I clung to her words with 
foolish hope. “No—you are wrong, Sapphira. She 
does not love me.” 

At this she shook her head violently and took an ag¬ 
gressive attitude, hands on hips, head thrown back. 
“Whut’s yo’ tellin’ me, seh! Don’t yo’ reckon dis nig¬ 
ger knows whut she’s talkin’ ’bout! Has I been knowin’ 
her all dese years, a-studyin’ her and all dat fur nothin’! 
’Scuse me fur sayin’ hit, seh, but yo’ sho is a stupid gem- 
man. Hit takes a ole nigger to see dese things. Take 
ma advice an’ go straight ober dar an’ tell her yo’ lubs her 
—jest to prove ole Saffy knows whut she’s talkin’ ’bout. 
Why yo’ stand dar shakin’ yo’ head dat way, man? Ef 
yo’ ain’t got spunk ’nough to do hit, I’se gwine do hit 
fur yo’.” 

She was working herself into a state of excitement 
that might become dangerous; and feigning an anger 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 271 

which I was far from feeling, I frowned severely and si¬ 
lenced her. “You are forgetting yourself, Sapphira. 
You must not talk this way.” 

She grew calmer, though she still looked at me with 
amazement, tinged, I’m sure, with whole-hearted con¬ 
tempt. “Den yo’se gwine to leab her an’ she a-lubin’ yo’ 
all de time! Hit will sho break her heart.” 

“Then the Colonel will mend it,” I said, going quickly 
into the house. 

Passing through the library and standing there aim¬ 
lessly a few minutes, I caught a flash of white go by the 
window. Looking up, I discovered Sapphira on her way 
across the lawn towards the opening in the hedge. In a 
second I was at the window and had called to her. She 
stopped as if shot, stood with her back to me trying to 
decide whether to go on or not, then turned slowly and 
came back towards me. When she was close to the win¬ 
dow her face showed an elaborate study in guilt. 

“Where were you going?” I asked severely. 

“To Mrs. Bruce’s, seh.” 

“What for?” 

“To borrow some butter fur yo’ dinner—lunch, seh. 
We’se clean out of butter.” 

“Come into the kitchen. I have something to say to 
you.” 

I stopped in the pantry, opened the refrigerator and 
found three large cakes of butter. “Now,” I said, stand¬ 
ing in the centre of her domain, “I know exactly what 
you were doing. You were going to tell Miss Bruce 
something that would make her very unhappy.” 

She lifted her guilty countenance and had the audacity 
to let her thick lips broaden out into a smile. “ ’Fo’ Gawd 


272 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


—I neber heard tell ob hit makin’ a young leddy miser¬ 
able to tell her a young man’s a-lubin’ her!” 

“In this case it would be—no matter how strange it 
may appear to you. And since your behavior forces this 
confession from me—for I see it’s the only way to keep 
you silent—I shall tell you that I have already told Miss 
Bruce.” This quite took her breath, and she listened 
silently as I went on: “You can tell her nothing that I 
have not. Still—I am going away and she is going to 
marry Colonel Morancey. Now—do you understand?” 
I had to repeat the question before she answered. 

“No, seh, I doesn’t understand any sich foolishness as 
dat. Times sho is changed! Now—’fo’ de War—” 

“Stop!” I commanded. “I don’t want to hear any 
more of your comments. I forbid you to say anything 
to Miss Bruce. If you do, I’ll discharge you the moment 
I get back here.” 

At this she broke into loud laughter. “Den yo’ is 
gwine to come back! I knowed hit all de time!” 

I left her with this belief; it appeared the easiest way 
to settle the matter. 

During the afternoon I went up to the garret to see 
the old man for the last time. It was almost unbearably 
hot; and yet he appeared to be wholly unconscious of it 
and looked particularly placid and cool, seated at the 
table with his soldiers. His first question was for a 
match and, as usual, I lighted his pipe wondering if he 
would ever have the luxury of smoking again. I have 
thought of writing to the Colonel and telling him that I 
had discovered this old madman in the house and demand¬ 
ing an explanation; on second thought I have decided to 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 273 

do nothing. Somehow the interest he aroused in me has 
been blotted out by other events. 

This afternoon his first question startled me. '‘What’s 
the matter with you?” I always had the impression that 
he hardly saw me at all. 

“I? Nothing at all.” 

“I know. You can’t fool me. Something’s gone 
wrong. He’s not well. You’re lying to me. He’s dy¬ 
ing !” He struggled up out of the chair and tottered to¬ 
wards me. “Take me to him. You can’t refuse that. 
Good God—there’s no harm in my seeing him! You 
will do it—won’t you?” 

I calmed him, though it took some time and more 
firmness than I had previously employed towards him. 
He finally sank back in his chair and watched me sus¬ 
piciously. 

“If it’s not that—what is it?” 

“Nothing at all. You are mistaken.” 

“I’ve got an idea! I know what it is!” Suddenly he 
began laughing easily to himself. It was that hideous, 
senseless, expressionless laughter of a maniac. “I know 
—I know!” 

“What do you mean?” I demanded, curious for an 
explanation. 

He leered at me. “It’s a woman!” 

I got up and went to the window so as not to see his 
sickening grin. Standing there, I realized that I was 
trembling with sheer horror. That he should have put 
his finger upon my wound seemed the apotheosis of 
suffering. 

“I thought so!” he went on interminably. “I know 
all about it. I had a girl once—a pretty little girl!” 


274 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


I left him moaning and laughing in the oncoming dusk 
—a picture I should like to forget and shall always re¬ 
member. 

Downstairs Perkins was busy with my luggage. He 
is the only one happy over the turn events have taken. I 
caught him whistling “En Douce,” a gay little song every 
one was singing in Paris when we left there. It made 
me furious that he should intrude, at this last moment, 
such an unsympathetic element. 

I went into the drawing room which was softly il¬ 
luminated by a shaft of gold from the setting sun and 
glanced about at its furnishings which were made up so 
essentially of the souvenirs of war. Verily, I stood in 
the dusk of battle—and out of the twilight the likeness of 
its heroes came to me. I stood a long time before the 
portrait of General Lee, gaining a quiet comfort from 
his tt&ndsome face. There was so much strength in it, 
so much nobility in the high brow, so much deep thought 
expressed in the lines above the well-modeled nose; and 
from his eyes, even as portrayed in a steel engraving, I 
felt all the conflict and sorrow and disappointment that 
must have been the big part of his life. Through it all 
he retained courage and nobility. It was a message to 
me, I felt; and as I passed on to the others—Jefferson 
Davis, Johnston, Stonewall Jackson and the quaint old 
prints of Sumter and Vicksburg, I had the feeling that 
someone very close and dear to me had put them there so 
that I might know that others before me had hoped and 
suffered and lost—and had been brave on to the end. 

The shaft of gold crept along the carpet, nearer and 
nearer the window, until it was gone and I was alone 
in a world of vague shadows. From without came the 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 275 


subdued twitter of birds, a firefly flashed a spark of light 
in the dusk, and the world sent forth its tingling vibra¬ 
tions of dying day. It was a fitting hour to take my 
parting communion with this old house and its inmates. 
I sat there a long time, realizing more than ever that it 
had taken hold of my life in such a way that—though I 
am never going to see it again—it will always be a part 
of me; and more than that—the best part. 

So, without words, yet with a deeper understanding 
than they express, I bade it all goodby forever. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


Chicago, September 15- 

Three months have gone by and I have not written a 
line; and now that I sit down with pen in hand and a 
resolution reached this morning, I find that these months 
have brought no change except to solidify some conclu¬ 
sions that were at first chaotic through excess of emotion. 

I have been racing through the western part of this 
great continent in a manner that would have brought on 
vertigo had it not been for the internal vision that gave 
a vagueness to surrounding wonders. I have seen mass 
upon mass of mountains slide by through a square of 
car window, great torrents have flashed into the scene 
and disappeared as if by magic, gruesome gorges have 
swallowed me up, a line of sharp, snow-capped moun¬ 
tains silhouetted against lurid skies have called me on and 
on—and still I have remained numb to appreciation. 
Now—all that is behind me and I am in this city of awful 
restlessness, with only strange impressions left of the 
places I have been through;—Colorado as a barren dis¬ 
trict whose great altitude robs its mountains of effect; 
California as a modern Riviera too large to produce the 
charm of the original; Yellowstone Park as a dreary 
waste of uninteresting, unnatural phenomena; and this 
city, a foundry of human life in which the heat of 
struggle, the soot of commerce, and a ceaseless roar blend 
into an atmospheric energy that leaves me exhausted and 
sleepless. And the people of these vast scenes! Here 
276 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 277 

words fail me. They are a race unto themselves, a mix¬ 
ture of every country of Europe losing all original flavor 
in becoming the ingredient of a powerful whole. Their 
voices tell their story of endless toil and unsurmountable 
energy; high pitched, harsh, oddly accented voices— 
what is accepted in foreign lands as the real American 
voice. Indeed, now that I have seen this great West, 
I believe it is from here that the hordes of Americans 
that swarm across Europe each summer are gathered. 
There is something so individual about them, so striking 
in their originality and so apart from the Old World, that 
it is easy to understand that they should make an im¬ 
pression where the cosmopolitanism of the East and the 
quiet of the South would pass unnoticed. And the won¬ 
derful part of them is that they have had the inclina¬ 
tion and taken the time to build in the midst of their 
smoke and struggle, in the heart of this city, an art 
museum that is full of charm. It is an incomprehensible 
country—this America; too vast in its differences for 
anyone to grasp an idea of what it represents! 

I came here first after my sudden decision to leave 
Cottonville and was overtaken by a letter from Miss 
Josie, berating me unmercifully for my lack of manners 
in leaving without a word of goodby for her. Between 
the lines there was a gentler note and one of real friend¬ 
ship that touched me; and the final paragraph brought 
only too keenly the tempest of that last day. 

“Of course I know why you left—probably the only 
one in town besides her who does. I wonder what she 
thinks of you for giving up the battle so easily! I’m 
afraid she has put you in the rank of cowards—the 
Yankee roll. I’m sure I would. I’m bitterly disap- 


278 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

pointed in you. You seemed promising—even I thought 
you were—and I detest finding my judgment faulty. 
Let me know where you are going. This is not a re¬ 
quest; it is a command.” 

She reminds me of Nannette in that she, too, dotes on 
the crime passionel and thinks a man is only a man after 
he has committed something of the sort. Naturally be¬ 
ing bred in the cradle of war, she can only see through 
belligerent eyes. But there is no use telling her that; she 
would only scoff. 

This morning I received a letter from the Colonel 
which has altered all my plans—if you could call this 
wandering about without any object plans. The letter 
was directed in an unfamiliar handwriting; even so, my 
heart went at a terrific pace when I held it in my hands, 
for I was sure—though I had never seen her writing— 
that it was from Rose. In a second—such is the hope¬ 
fulness of man!—I felt sure that Morancey had spoken 
to her, that she had confessed to him that the marriage 
was abhorrent to her and that he had released her; then 
she had written me to come back, not promising anything, 
but leaving everything to be inferred. I fairly danced 
about the room like a schoolboy let off from a thrashing, 
holding the letter aloft, looking at it and—but I shall 
not tell all the secret things I did with it. In the end I 
sat down and tore the envelope open. 

“Dear Sir and Master: 

Saffy an’ me wants to tell yo’ how much we misses yo’ 
an’ how we hopes yo’ will soon be a-coming back to us. 
It’s powerful hot here an’ we ain’t had no rain for two 
months an’ folks say the crops is all burnt up. The house 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


279 


is in first class condition. Saffy has put up nigh on to a 
barrel of fig preserves. The flivver has been mended an’ 
is doing well. Lucretia Borgia is as usual. Goodby, sir, 

Yo’ faithful servants, 
Nias and Saffy.” 

And she wrote it for them, using their own language 
just as they had spoken it. I can see her, probably sit¬ 
ting on the porch steps with a portfolio on her knees, 
Ananias and Sapphira standing solemnly before her and 
dictating. I wonder if she did not know that I would 
guess it was her writing and accept it as a letter wholly 
from her! 

I folded the letter, put it in my pocket, called Perkins 
and told him not to unpack my things, that we were 
leaving on the next train. 

“Where to, sir?” he inquired meekly. The poor fel¬ 
low is worn out with so much cross country traveling. 

“To Cottonville.” 

His astonishment was unusually evident. “Shall you 
go back there, sir?” 

“Yes, Perkins, as quickly as I can.” 

He remained silent a few moments and I saw plainly 
he wanted to say something. 

“All right, Perkins, fire away! What is it?” 

“Well, sir,” he coughed apologetically, “to be per¬ 
fectly frank with you, sir—I don’t see how I can go 
back to that little village. You don’t mind my saying 
it, sir, for you must see how it is to me after my life in 
Paris. Why, sir, I live like a priest in a monastery down 
there! I don’t have any friends, no lady friends, sir, for 
going out with; and then those people, sir, they look 


280 that late unpleasantness 


down on me for being a servant. I’m proud of it my¬ 
self—but they don’t see it that way. Now, sir, in Europe 
a gentleman’s man servant has a certain position—his 
friends—his clubs; but in America he hasn’t got none. 
You see, sir, how I feel?” 

“You are quite right, Perkins. I’m surprised you 
stuck it out as long as you did. So you want to go back 
to Paris?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Very well—we’ll separate here. You can go on to 
New York and sail from there.” 

He thanked me feelingly and then asked if he might 
put a question. 

“Anything you want to know, Perkins ?” 

“Well, sir—it’s this. With all your past experience 
and training, how can you stick it, sir, down there ?” 

The way he said it, his expression, his complete incom¬ 
prehension of the case was delightful. And beneath his 
question was a good deal of common sense. I put it to 
myself—after I had given him an unsatisfactory answer 
—and found my explanations somewhat vague. I have 
tried to argue it out with myself from a perfectly philo¬ 
sophical point of view; I have cited the fact that some in¬ 
herited sentiment had something to do with it; I have in¬ 
sisted that the provincialism of the place and people 
creates a certain irresistible charm; I have even gone so 
far as to try to make myself think that I might never 
have fallen in love with Rose if I had met her out of 
her own setting, presenting the theory that each one of us 
has his own atmosphere in which he shines—that out 
of it we lose our finer points, those rather subtle, dis¬ 
tinguishing traits that make up our real personality. But 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 281 


a lover philosophizing is very much of a joke. Here I 
am trying to explain to myself why I have taken a definite 
decision—when as a matter of fact it can’t be explained 
at all—it must only be felt and accepted that way. I 
could argue for days, even months, and still reach the same 
conclusion—that the only thing in the world that means 
anything now to me is to get back to Rose. 

Cottonville, September 25- 

So here I am again. 

The first thing that struck me was the deserted aspect 
of the town. There seems to be no one anywhere; and 
the appearance of nature adds to the forlorn picture; the 
streets are deep in dust and falling leaves, the trees are 
parched brown, the lawns are dry and yellow and the 
houses have a neglected, haunted look. Even my house 
shows the effects of this dismal season, though the lawn 
is raked of leaves and the front walk is swept daily. 

The front door was closed when I arrived; but Sap- 
phira responded to my ring and stared at me in open- 
mouthed astonishment. 

“ ’Fo’ Gawd, seh, be hit yo’! Dis nigger sho is glad to 
see yo’! But—Lawdy, seh—dar ain’t hardly nothin’ in 
de house to eat!” 

It was so like her to think of the inside of man first— 
her profession, of course—while I could think of nothing 
at that moment but the outside and a bath. 

Sitting once more in the dining room brought a flood 
of memories. I sense a familiarity here in these sur¬ 
roundings that is deeper than I have ever experienced 
before. I cannot quite explain it; yet the mere scent of 
this old house, the lights and shadows in its rooms, cer- 



282 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


tain perspectives and bits of furniture left as they were 
originally placed—all blend into a whole that seems a 
part of my inner self, some hidden side of me that is 
just awakening. It is as if I had been here in another 
life and was slowly remembering that former existence. 
I had begun to have this feeling before I left, attributing 
it to some special appeal the place had for me; but now— 
I feel that it is more than that. Might it be explained by 
that Oriental belief which tells us we immediately sense a 
familiarity in the surroundings when we reach the place 
where the drama of our lives is to be enacted! 

With dessert, Lucretia Borgia and Sapphira appeared, 
the former carrying her tail straight up in the air and 
looking really handsome. The sun baths have been a 
great success; her hair is as sleek and thick as though she 
were of Persian ancestry; even her countenance seems to 
have modulated in severity. Without exaggerating, one 
might now call her a rather swanky sort of cat—which is 
saying a good deal for Lucretia. 

Sapphira stood in the corner and witnessed, with great 
satisfaction, my surprise. 

“What have you done to her, Sapphira? I’ve never 
see anyone improve so much.” 

“Fed her on raw meat ebery day sense yo’se been 
gone. Dat cat would eat a whole cow ef I’d de notion 
to gib hit to her.” 

“And the flivver—how is it?” 

“Shucks—dat flibber!” She dismissed it with con¬ 
tempt. “Whut I come in here for, seh, wuz to axe yo’ 
ef yo’se got a mind to see whut I’se been doin’ whilst yo’ 
wuz away.” 

I rose and followed her to the pantry. In the cabinet 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 283 

which forms the entrance to the attic steps, she showed 
me row after row of jars filled with fig preserves. I 
admired her energy and complimented the result. When 
Ananias had gone to the kitchen, she turned to me with 
an air of great secrecy. 

“I jes run ober To’ dinner an’ tole her yo’ wuz come 
back home. ,, 

“What did she say?” 

“Nothin’ Jes looked hit.” 

“Looked what?” 

“Shucks! Whut yo’ reckon! Den she got white as 
a sheet.” 

I waited breathlessly for more. “Well—what else?” 

“Ain’t dat enough, seh!” Ananias was returning. 
“Whut time does yo’ want breakfast in de mornin’, seh?” 

Lucretia and I sat on the front veranda late into the 
night; and only the faint glimmer of a lamp greeted me 
from the little cottage. It is very hot, almost unbearably 
hot; and the quiet of the surroundings is equal to that of 
some desert place except that the faint chirp of crickets 
and the whining sounds of mosquitoes made it even more 
dreary. 

And yet—I am happy. She is just there—beyond the 
hedge. 


CHAPTER XIX 


October 8- 

The days are dragging along one after another with 
nothing, absolutely nothing, to mark them. I have tried 
to plan things to make them pass more rapidly, and with 
this in view fitted up a sort of studio in the front room 
and began designing her house—a thing I had not for¬ 
gotten but which had been shelved with many other mem¬ 
ories. I worked at it a week and at the end of that time 
tore up the plans. Can a more disheartening thing be 
imagined than designing a house for the one you love to 
live in with someone else! The thoughts that were 
necessarily a part of the work were unbearable. 

In desperation I began again on the Civil War; and 
have made such astonishing progress that it looks as if 
it might become an obsession. To fix the battles and 
dates and names in my mind, I have made diagrams of 
the whole four years. For example, I can name offhand 
the cabinet of Jefferson Davis; and assert without hesi¬ 
tancy the mistake Georgia made in insisting upon Toombs 
being made Secretary of State, a bad selection convinc¬ 
ingly shown when he retired and became an active mal¬ 
content; I can blame Alabama with good reason for 
claiming the war portfolio for Pope Walker; and Mem- 
minger surely made a dismal failure of Confederate cur¬ 
rency, as my worthless hundred dollar bills testify; I 
can admire Benjamin for probably being the best man of 
the lot, sinking all personal ambition for the sake of the 
cause; and of course I blame Mr. Mallory for not be- 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 285 

ginning to build his battleships until the war had been 
going on a year, though he, like almost all of us at the 
beginning of the World War, thought it would only last a 
few months. Even now the Colonel’s face takes on an 
inimitable expression when he refers to “Lincoln’s 
crowd” saying that the taking of Richmond would only 
be a matter of a “military promenade” from Washing¬ 
ton. Hearing him discuss it makes my thoughts always 
jump back to those days when we heard so much about 
the Kaiser having ordered luncheon at the Cafe de Paris. 

Since I have gained a perspective by reading the com¬ 
plete sequence of events, this struggle of our own people 
has shaped itself into an intensely absorbing drama, even 
more absorbing—now that I am surrounded by the scenes 
in which it was played—than that other great holocaust 
that so recently had us, and still has us, in its grip. But 
that was a war of many nations; this was a war of only 
one. It was our very own. No one else had anything 
to do with it. And because it was ours, its drama is 
bound to be much more vital to us—much more a part 
of us—much more important in making us what we are 
and what we are going to be. 

With the guns at Sumter booming out a signal for 
the curtain to rise, an almost breathless rush of events 
sweeps on to the stage. The clanging of bells announces 
the secession of states; then the call for troops and the 
domestic tragedies when lads of fifteen leave home to 
fight for a separate union; the choice of Generals—Lee, 
Jackson, Beauregard, Johnston; the first battle and the 
resounding cry “On to Washington” clashing against “On 
to Richmond.” The scene shifts to the sea where the 
Merrimac sinks the Cumberland and the Congress and is 


286 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


beaten back by the Monitor ; then a wild rush out to the 
West on the one hand, and to the far South and Louisiana 
on the other where Farragut and Butler silence the forts 
below New Orleans, break through the chains laid across 
the river, conquer the Confederate fleet and take the city. 
Now McClellan is in Virginia, advancing towards Rich¬ 
mond, and in lurid colors Antietam burns itself across the 
sky. Close on comes the astounding news that Lincoln 
has freed the negroes and sent them forth to take up 
arms against their former masters; one sees them form¬ 
ing part of a great army that is marching through a 
gentle green country burning and destroying everything 
that stands in their way—and above the cries of desolate 
women and children is heard the chant of liberated slaves 
praising their leader “Massa Sherman.” Afterwards 
comes the pluck and courage of Vicksburg, a siege of 
forty days when starvation and shells beat down the de¬ 
fense of the Mississippi. And at the same time thirty 
thousand men are dying at Gettysburg and Lee is seen 
retreating across the Potomac. Then the curtain falls 
slowly on the scene at Appomatox with the conqueror 
giving back to the conquered his sword; and in the back¬ 
ground is an endless stretch of ruined country, desolate 
hearths, broken hearts. . . . 

“How could you find courage enough to start all over 
again?” I asked Dr. Archer one day. “To me that seems 
the greatest thing you have done—much greater than the 
battles you fought; for there was the zest of fighting in 
the battles—all of us love that—but to go back home and 
find nothing but desolation! Only the really brave could 
have taken up the burden of life then and gone on.” 

“That was when our real struggle began—a struggle 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 287 

that’s been going on ever since,” he said, with a flash of 
memories in his eyes. “The North hasn’t any notion of 
what we went through during reconstruction days. 
Everything else was child’s play beside that.” He drew a 
deep sigh. “But it’s all over now—and mostly forgotten 
except by old fossils like me. The Spanish war—and 
now this last one—has come pretty nigh wiping out all 
recollection of what we went through. You young peo¬ 
ple can’t hate like we used to—and I reckon it’s a mighty 
good thing for the whole of our country that you can’t.” 

I went out to see Miss Josie the day after my arrival 
and found her installed as matron of the Veterans’ Home 
as though she had never been anything else. Her own 
room was as bare as her former abode, but that is her 
wish, a habit grown into preference through necessity. 
She welcomed me with her usual mixture of severity and 
kindness and took me into the reception room where the 
windows and shades were lowered and a cool darkness 
was most agreeable. She has some theory about open¬ 
ing a house only during the night in hot weather and 
closing it during the day. 

“So you—like the cat—came back,” she said, taking a 
chair in the prim fashion she always observes. 

“Are you glad to see me, ma’am ?” 

She ignored my question by putting one. “Why on 
earth don’t you learn to write? I couldn’t read a word 
in that letter you sent me.” 

“That part of my education was neglected.” 

“I reckon you think it’s stylish. Well—’tisn’t. Now, 
tell me, why did you come back ?” 

I glanced at her and smiled. “You—of all people— 
ask me that!” 


288 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Well,—you ran away; didn’t you?” 

Suddenly I decided to be quite frank with her. “I 
asked her to marry me. She refused.” 

She got up and stood directly in front of me. “Are 
you telling me the truth, young man?” 

1 am. 

“Well—I never!” She sat down again, less prim than 
usual. “The little idiot! I thought she had more sense.” 

“She said she loved Colonel Morancey.” 

“You aren’t goose enough to believe that?” 

“At any rate—she doesn’t love me.” 

“Fiddlesticks! She told you that to test you.” 

“No—she is not that sort.” 

“What do you know about women! When it comes 
to a question of love—or anything else for that matter— 
you can’t trust them as far as you can see them—that is 
to say, most of them. There are a few exceptions— 
thank God! I’ll have a talk with her myself.” 

“No—no! You must not, Miss Josie. I insist that 
you do nothing of the sort. If you do I’ll withdraw my 
subscription to the Veterans’ Home. I mean it.” 

It was the only thing that I could think of that would 
have any weight with her; and it did have the desired 
effect. 

“Well—I won’t then. But it’s all such foolishness!” 
She glanced at me and seemed to take in for the first 
time what it meant to me. The next moment she had 
put her hand on mine. “It’ll come out all right; and 
even if it doesn’t—it’ll be the making of you.” 

“Small comfort!” 

“But it will come out all right. Look at me. I’ve 
been living nigh on to seventy-five years and I ought to 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 289 

know; oughtn’t I ? I’ve suffered my share too and yet— 
everything came out just as it ought to. When you have 
done your best, there is only one thing left to do—put 
your trust in God. He never lets any of us go entirely 
to the dogs—that is if we’re worth our salt. Don’t you 
think I look happy? Well—if you knew what I had 
been through! Now, I’m the happiest woman in the 
world—happier than I ever hoped to be.” Here she got 
up energetically. “Don’t you want to see them?” 

“Who?” I was always a bit bewildered by her unex¬ 
pected changes. 

“My old vets. There are twenty of them now.” 

She showed me upstairs and into the room I had fur¬ 
nished. In the morris chair, rolled up to the window, 
sat an old man; his feet were propped up on the window 
sill, his head rested comfortably against the back of the 
chair and in his hands he held a book which he was evi¬ 
dently reading with intense interest. He looked up in¬ 
differently as we came in, gave me a cursory glance, 
nodded to Miss Josie and resumed his reading. On the 
other side of the room, seated at a small table, was an¬ 
other man, quite as old, playing solitaire. He appeared 
more amiable and said something about having won two 
games that day. Following Miss Josie out of the room, 
I found her making a wry face at the door she had just 
closed. 

“Now— w hat do you think of that?” she demanded. 

“They look most comfortable and contented. Aren’t 
you pleased ?” 

“No, I’m not! That one by the window won’t do a 
thing but read dime novels all the livelong day; and the 
other one can’t be budged from those cards. And will 


2 9 o THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

you believe it?—one was with Longstreet in the Wilder¬ 
ness—and the other carried a flag at Missionary Ridge! 
They ought to be ashamed of themselves!” 

“What would you have them do?” 

“Have them do! Haven’t I collected a whole library 
of books downstairs on the War—and not one of them 
will look at it! Say they don’t have to read about it— 
they know it all by heart as they went through it!” 

Her disappointment amounted to chagrin. She is evi¬ 
dently an idealist and wants all subjects except the Con¬ 
federacy taboo. 

“Then they quarrel with each other all the time; tell 
me I should give them separate rooms—that one snores 
and keeps the other one awake—and another smokes in 
bed! And they actually complain of the food! Did you 
ever hear the beat of that?” 

I tried to pour oil on the troubled waters of her under¬ 
taking and made some reference to heroes not being 
heroes to those who took care of them. 

“But they were heroes! Why shouldn’t they go on 
being the same till they drop in their tracks. I wish I 
didn’t get out of patience with them—but I do. And 
three more are coming tomorrow!” 

We were on the front veranda now and I took my 
leave of her with many compliments for the place and the 
way she was running it. I had gone down the steps 
when she called after me and followed with surprising 
agility. 

“Have you seen her since you’ve been home ?” 

“No—not even a glimpse from a distance.” 

“Aren’t you going to call on her ?” 

I shook my head. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 291 

'Then what in the name of goodness did you come 
back here for?” 

I held out my hands helplessly. 

"You’re a queer duck. I reckon it’s the Yankee blood 
in you. Anyhow—I’m going to think about it—and 
find a way out for you.” 

I looked back after we had parted and saw her going 
towards two old men sitting on the lawn. I’ll wager they 
began talking Confederacy when they saw her approach— 
that is if they know on which side their bread is buttered. 

My old friend in the attic is going along as placidly as 
ever. I go up to see him every day or so, sometimes 
listening to him when he wishes to talk, at others sitting 
opposite him and watching him smoke. The first visit 
after my return he rushed at me with a violence that 
frightened me, but as soon as he was near his expression 
changed and his voice came whimpering and beseeching 
for matches. Poor old fellow! I suppose he has been 
reduced to chewing tobacco during my absence. It was 
a real joy to see him sit down and draw at his pipe—and 
feel the calm of a great content creep over him after so 
long a fast. His countenance changed, too, and he 
looked at me with an almost happy expression. 

"They’ve taken the shackles off him,” he said, after a 
long silence. "They’ll be trying him soon—I reckon.” 

"Who told you?” I hazarded the question and found 
him giving me a cunning, sidelong glance. 

"Never mind. I know it.” Then, brushing his hand 
across his eyes: "Now there’s only one thing left me 
to do.” 

"What?” 


292 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

“Find the man that betrayed us—the one who told 
them where he was.” 

“You think that possible?” 

“If I could just remember his name! I know his 
face. It’s there—right there. You see it? Don’t 
you ?” He rose, laid a hand on my shoulder and pointed 
into space; then, with a moan, he sank back in his chair 
and covered his face with his hands. 

I left him; and the next day found him seated at the 
table with his blue and grey soldiers apparently absorbed 
in some military manoeuvre. Sometimes I find him asleep 
and do not waken him; again, when he is communicative, 
I try to unravel the mystery of his wrecked brain and 
end with discovering nothing. 

During the last few days there has been a hint of 
autumn in the air. The late afternoons have taken on a 
bluish tinge and the nights are a little fresher—though 
there is still no life in the atmosphere. ... I have not 
seen her. Sapphira tells me her piano pupils are all 
away, awaiting frost before returning. The Colonel 
mentions her and her mother occasionally, though with 
averted eyes and evident embarrassment. ... So the 
days pass and I find myself waiting—for what? I do 
not know. In spite of all this dreariness and loneliness 
and stifling weather, I still have no inclination to leave. 
If it were not for the long evenings I suppose I would 
get along fairly well; usually I read them away, but one 
cannot read always, though, if I don’t read, I think—and 
that gets me into a fever of moroseness and impatience. 
This inertia can’t last. It’s contrary to my nature; yet 
I know I shall never go away without seeing her. On 
the whole, I am abominably miserable. 


CHAPTER XX 


November i- 

And now I come to a time when it seems impossible 
to put into words what has happened. I have read over 
what I have written and look upon it as only half express¬ 
ing the preparation I have been undergoing to reach the 
end Fate had awaiting me. Words are too feeble to tell 
what I want them to; I feel, then attempt to write it 
down, and reading afterwards, say to myself: That is 
not what I felt, there is no thrill there, there is no rush 
of blood through the veins which brings an intense heat 
or bitter chill. After long training in the use of words, 
one might be able to tell with some effect the experience 
of others; but when a man writes of himself he knows he 
cannot record a moiety of his real sensations. Yet—with 
poor words and feeble hand—something impels me to 
put down the crisis that has come. It must be the crisis; 
nothing could possibly be more momentous in my life 
than the past month. 

I have had a table put on the front veranda, just within 
the shadow where the delicious warmth of sunshine can be 
felt and still not strike the page. The leaves are gently 
falling—Ananias finds it impossible to keep the lawn 
raked clean; and there is an sombre glow everywhere— 
brown leaves, brown tree trunks, yellowed grass—all 
given life and beauty by the golden sunshine. The air 
is fresh, a little less than balmy, except in the afternoons 
293 



294 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

when the sun fades off into the haze of blues and greys. 
There is an energy in the atmosphere that is reflected in 
the town. It is now much as it was when I first arrived 
here, only that everything is in a different dress and there 
is that charm over the world that only autumn can give. 

I have had malarial fever—swamp fever, Sapphira 
calls it. It made its appearance quite unexpectedly; 
though I am told the germs were at work at least ten days 
before I knew it. It came with a chill, a horrible shak¬ 
ing affair that set my teeth to chattering as if they were 
all loose; I remember I tried to stand up and control my¬ 
self—it seemed such a foolish thing to shake that way— 
but I could do nothing but stagger to my room and call 
for help. Sapphira came and, seeing me lying across the 
bed where I had fallen, grabbed my wrist in her hand 
and held it with an iron grip. 

“Whut’s yo’ got, seh? Yo’ hand’s a-burnin’ up!” 

“Burning up! Are you mad?” I shouted at her. 
“I’m freezing!” 

“ ’Fo’ Gawd—you’se done gone an’ got hit!” 

“Got what?” 

“De swamp fever! Dis is de way hit comes!” 

“Then throw something over me—and send for Doctor 
Archer.” 

By the time she had put the cover over me a flow of 
red hot fire was racing through my veins. Then Ananias 
came and undressed me and I tossed between the sheets 
for an interminable time before the doctor came. He 
took my temperature, my pulse and all the other foolish 
things doctors will do and then sat down by the bed and 
looked at me. It may have been the forerunner of de¬ 
lirium, I do not know, but as I looked at him he was all 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 295 

red hair, red beard, red spectacles—a burning red, like 
the fire in my blood. 

“Well,” I murmured, “what is it?” 

“Fever. Malarial—I think.” 

“It feels more like scarlet. Am I going to die?” 

“Not unless you want to.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“Nobody dies unless he gives up.” 

“Piffle!” I cried, tossing to the other side of the bed 
and back again. “It feels as if it’s going to be fatal.” 

“It isn’t piffle,” he continued quietly; his voice sounded 
miles off. “I’ve been a doctor for more than fifty years 
and have yet to lose a patient who wanted to live.” 

“Is that Coue—or Christian Science?” 

“It’s just good old-fashioned horse sense.” 

“Then get to work on me. I think—I think I want 
to live.” 

“Aren’t you sure?” 

“Not quite. If things were different—” 

“If you want me to help you—you’ve got to make up 
your mind pretty quick.” 

“Take a chance at me. I’ll do my best.” 

A ridiculous enough conversation for a physician to 
have with a man on fire with fever. When I spoke of it 
afterwards and asked him if it had really occurred as I 
remembered it, he smiled and said: “Oh, yes, it hap¬ 
pened—just that way. It’s my way of handling sick 
people. I always force a patient to help himself—put 
him on his mettle. It’s better than all the medicine in 
the world.” 

He began at once, with cold water and sponges, as¬ 
sisted by Ananias and Sapphira; but the result brought 


296 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


no comfort. I was sure I could not live through it—so 
great was the torture in every nerve. To add to the 
suffering I lost the power of speech—except staccato 
moans. Most of the time I was unconscious of every¬ 
thing except consuming heat, though at times there would 
come flashing periods of lucidity when I saw what was 
going on about me, yet was quite unable to communicate 
with anyone. One of these periods came in the middle 
of the night and I raised myself on an elbow and looked 
about the room. In a bewildered, uncomprehending way 
I knew that something was wrong. I tried to speak and 
call the old man who was standing beside the bed; but 
he would not answer me. I saw him turn away, go to my 
dressing table and pull out drawer after drawer. Then 
he appeared to have found what he was looking for, for 
he slipped something into his pocket and gave a strange, 
exulting, nerve-racking laugh. This brought Ananias 
into the room; and I saw him rush towards the old man 
and draw him away. The next thing I remembered was 
the doctor sitting beside me, who, when he saw my eyes 
open, gave me a little water. Through the window I 
saw it was dawn. 

Then came an interminably long period of nothingness, 
a vacuum filled with horror upon horror—just the sensa¬ 
tion of horror without any definite conception of what it 
was or what had brought it. There were half lucid 
periods at this time, also, lasting a bare second or two, 
though each time I somehow knew that someone was in 
the room whom I wanted to see and couldn’t. At last, 
after five days, I opened my eyes and found Rose sitting 
beside the bed. 

I tried to speak, but my tongue was so swollen and 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 297 

filled my mouth in such a way that I could not; the effort 
left me almost fainting. She was quick to see this and 
leaned near me, saying, in a far-off whisper: “You must 
not speak. Drink this water.” I closed my eyes and 
felt the delicious pressure of her bare arm under my head 
as she raised it and held the glass to my lips. After¬ 
wards I lay quiet a long time, trying to open my eyes and 
look at her. It was twenty hours afterwards that I did, 
though it seemed a mere matter of minutes. This time 
my hand made a movement under the sheet and crept 
towards hers, half an inch at a time. She saw the move¬ 
ment and came to my aid, letting my hand rest in hers. 
How cool and fresh it was! From then on the raging 
fire within me died down and I felt deliciously cool—as 
if a breeze from the tropics had blown across snow 
mountains and then touched me. 

Holding my hand, I saw her expression change and 
heard her call Ananias. “Telephone Dr. Archer to come 
at once—tell him not to lose a moment—and go for my 
Mother, quick!” 

Her hand tightened on mine; and I fancied I saw fear 
in her eyes. I tried to ask her what the matter was, but 
my lips refused to move. She must have known that I 
wanted to know; yet she did not answer and sat there 
with averted eyes. Then Mrs. Bruce came into the room. 
She was in a dressing gown; so I concluded it must be 
night. 

“What is it, Rose?” I heard her say as she came 
swiftly towards the bed. 

“He is so cold! Feel his hands. It came in a mo¬ 
ment.” 

She dropped my hand, after holding it a moment, and 


298 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

turned to Ananias. “Will the doctor be long in com- 
ing?” 

"Miss Archer said ’bout half a hour.” 

"That will not be soon enough. Get me alcohol and 
towels—quick!” 

"Be he so powerful sick, ma’am?” 

"Yes—yes. Hurry.” 

Kneeling down beside the bed she began rubbing me 
with her hands, now and then applying alcohol, so that I 
soon felt a comfortable glow creeping over me and fell 
asleep. When I opened my eyes again, the doctor and 
Morancey were beside the bed; beyond, as if a part of the 
shadows of the room, I saw Rose and her mother. I 
felt so much better and so entirely comfortable that I 
wondered at the anxiety so plainly showing on their faces. 

Dr. Archer, seeing my eyes open, took hold of my 
hand. "How do you feel now?” he asked, in a low 
voice. 

I made an effort to answer and achieved a faint 
whisper: "Better.” 

He put his hand on my heart and let it rest there; then 
took hold of my wrist. Afterwards, he looked towards 
the others and shook his head. From somewhere in the 
shadows came a low sob. Suddenly my mind grew 
clearer. 

"What is it, Doctor?” 

Before he could answer, Mrs. Bruce had come to the 
side of the bed and taken my hand in hers. "Let me 
tell him,” she whispered to the others, motioning them 
away; then she sat down on the edge of the bed. 

"Am I very ill ?” I asked. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 299 

“Yes,” came her dear, low, sweet voice—which robbed 
the short word of its harshness. 

“Am I going to die?” 

“You are very ill.” 

“Am I going to die?” I repeated. “Please tell me. 
I’d rather know.” 

Her hand stroked mine ever so gently. “Is there any¬ 
thing you want to say to us—anything you want done?” 

I lay back on the pillows, stretching a little, and won¬ 
dering why I should feel so comfortable and still be on 
the point of death. For some reason—perhaps the weak¬ 
ness—I had no fear of death at that moment; nor did I 
seem to have any thought of what death meant or of that 
strange future I was facing. I was only conscious of 
the peace that had come to me after days of torture. 

Again I heard Mrs. Bruce’s voice near me. “Can you 
tell me now—if there is anything you want done?” 

I opened my eyes. “Where is the Colonel?” 

He came out of the shadows and stood beside the bed. 

“If I die—is—is the property mine to leave?” 

He nodded. 

“Then—make my testament. I want everything to 
go to—to Rose.” 

I watched him go towards the writing table; and then 
the scratching of a pen sounded in the still room; after¬ 
wards he brought the paper to me and held me in his 
arms while I wrote my name. 

“Now,” I said to the doctor who was again beside 
me, “is there nothing you can do ?” 

He looked at me steadily. “Get through this night 
and you will be all right.” 


3 oo THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 

I lay still a while with closed eyes. “Now,” I said 
finally, “all of you go—please. Only—only leave Rose 
with me—no one else—please.” 

I saw them fade out of the scene; and into it she came, 
pale and vague as though it were only my imagination 
that had created her there beside me. For a few mo¬ 
ments she stood looking down at me through wide open, 
dry eyes; then very slowly she sank down to her knees 
and put out her arm across me and buried her face 
against my side. It was then that I was sure that death 
could not be bitter. There was such glory of happiness 
surrounding me that for a while I thought that death 
must have come and gone, and that I was in that place 
called Heaven. It was somewhere not of this world 
surely—a land of spirits freed forever from suffering. 

Once she stirred and the perfume of her breath was 
warm against my cheek; then I knew that her lips were 
upon mine and that her hair was soft against my throat. 
A long time afterwards I heard her voice, a whisper per¬ 
fectly attuned to that vague world. 

“Stay with me—oh—stay with me! I cannot bear it 
alone. You must not leave me. Stay with me!” 

“You wish it?” 

“Yes—yes—more than anything in the world!” 

“Then—I will,” I said simply, as if the matter were 
entirely in my hands. 

“It is tonight. This is the time we must battle.” 

“Then we will—together—and we’re going to win.” 

With one arm across my breast, the other encircling my 
head, and her face pressed against my heart, we watched 
through the night. The doctor, coming in with the 
dawn, found us thus—both asleep. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 301 


In two days I wanted to get out of bed; the doctor in¬ 
sisted however that I was still in grave danger. I 
laughed and told him I didn’t believe I had been in danger 
at any time, that he, like all physicians, wanted to make 
his patients appear seriously ill so that a cure, when ef¬ 
fected, might reflect more credit on him. 

“Have your way,” the old fellow said, drawing his 
chair up close to the bed. I have grown really fond of 
him during the past weeks. “I make a point of never 
arguing with a patient. I only give orders. How are 
you?” 

“Never felt better.” 

“That’s the way to talk. Keep it up—and I’ll let you 
get out of bed in a week.” 

“Was I really ill?” 

“Were you!” he chuckled. “Answer that yourself. 
How did you feel?” 

“Like the very old scratch while it lasted. But—in 
a minute—it was all gone.” 

“That’s the way with some fevers. They do one 
thing or the other.” 

“Any after effects?” 

“Only good ones. You’ll probably be healthier than 
you ever were. Why are you frowning?” 

“Just a bit disappointed at not remaining an invalid for 
a long time. On the whole—it s rather pleasant. 

“I see. You like petting.” 

“Who doesn’t?” 

Sapphira came in with a bowl of chicken broth her 
first appearance, at least the first time I had seen her. 
She looked most important and serious. 

“You’ve deserted me, Sapphira. I haven’t seen you 


302 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


for ages,” I said, smiling with real pleasure at once more 
seeing her countenance. 

“De doctor wouldn’t low me to come in ’fo’ dis—said 
ma voice wuz too loud.” 

“Doctor! How could you!” I complained. 

“It was all a question of her devotion to you. When 
I got here that first night, you’d a-thought it was she had 
fever. Nias had to lock her in her room.” 

I held out my hand to her. “Thank you, Sapphira. 
Your love is sincere and demands emotional expression; 
doesn’t it?” 

She put down the bowl of broth and looked at me. “I 
neber does know half de words yo’ uses; but I does 
know I wuz powerful overcited dat night. I was sar- 
tain yo’ wuz gwine to die.” 

“Why?” 

“Jes’ cause yo’ wuz too good to lib, seh; dat’s de 
reason.” 

This was too much to accept, even from Sapphira; and 
I turned to Dr. Archer for assistance. “What ought I 
to do with her?” 

“Tell her her food’s bad for you; forbid her to cook 
for a month.” 

“Me stop cookin’! ’Fo’ Gawd—dat’s all dis ole nigger 
kin do!” 

“No—don’t stop altogether. Only—you must never 
make another prune merveille. The doctor says one 
who has had fever can never touch it again. It would 
bring on another attack.” 

She stared from one to the other of us. “Dat sho is 
funny. I’se had de fever an’ I’se been eating prune 
merveille eber since.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 303 


In three days the doctor kept his promise and let me 
sit up; and in four more days I was rolled out on the 
front veranda. It was about noon, real autumn was in 
the air and the flood of sunlight brought a flood of hap¬ 
piness to me which was as yet unimpaired by questions. 
I sat there an hour or more in that delightful indolence 
of convalescence. 

Finally Sapphira appeared with a tray. 

“More chicken broth! Take it away. I want some¬ 
thing solid/’ 

“Dis is a lunch Missus Bruce done sent yo’, seh— 
lak I couldn’t cook ebery thing yo’ wants,” she added 
with a touch of resentment. “An’ she wants to know ef 
yo’ wants her to come ober heah an’ talk some to yo’.” 

“Tell her I shall be delighted—and Miss Bruce, too.” 

“She’s done gwine to de country.” 

“Where?” 

“Up de Yazoo Ribber, seh.” 

“For how long?” 

“Don’t know, seh. She wuz plum wore out.” 

“Worn out! Doing what?” 

“Well, now ef dat don’t take de cake? Why, seh. 
nussing yo’. Whut yo’ reckon?” 

“Come here, Sapphira. Was she with me often while 
I was ill?” 

“She wuz heah all de time—night an’ day; she an’ her 
ma. 

She lifted a napkin and displayed a daintily arranged 
tray with chicken broth—this, it appears, is to be my 
future staff of life—some thin toast, a platter of jelly, 
a pot of tea and a tiny vase of autumn roses. 

Sapphira surveyed the display superciliously; and re- 


3 04 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


ceiving no comment from me, she gave her own. “Iv 
doesn’t see nothin’ finer ’bout dat dan whut I kin fix.” 

“There isn’t—except the roses. You’d never have 
thought of that; now would you?” 

“Ain’t hit de truth! Dat’s whar white folks puts hit 
ober niggers.” 

Mrs. Bruce came across the lawn and sank into the 
chair beside me with that inexpressible gentleness and 
sweetness that I can only feel and not describe. She 
brought some sewing with her and said that I must let 
her do all the talking, that I should only listen and go to 
sleep when I felt like it. She began at once telling me 
about the difficult time Miss Josie was having at the 
Veterans’ Home—all on account of the scarcity of fresh 
food at that season; the veterans were on the verge of 
mutiny, claiming that she not only wanted them to talk 
war all the time but was also feeding them on war rations. 

“Your daughter has gone away ?” I got out at last. 

“Yes—for a visit of a week or two. But you are not 
thinking of going to sleep.” 

“How can I ? There is so much to hear.” 

She resumed her sewing. Is there anything more rest¬ 
ful and soothing than a woman sewing! “I see—I’ll 
have to begin talking about the war,” she said with a 
soft laugh. 

“No—that excites me,” I smiled back at her. “Seri¬ 
ously—it does. I feel the thrill of your battles much 
more than those I actually went through.” 

“Then—what shall we talk about ?” 

“Why not Rose?” 

She laid her sewing down and put her hand on mine. 
“My dear boy—you must not go on dwelling on Rose. 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 305 

You are too young not to get over that. It would make 
us very miserable to think that we had brought any un¬ 
happiness to you.” 

It was clear that she did not know of Rose’s confession 
to me that night. 

“Do you think one really ever gets over loving?” I 
asked her, after we had been silent a long time. 

“In your case it is possible—it is only natural—be¬ 
cause—because you have known her such a short time. 
If it were a matter of long association—that would make 
it different. Three or four months of one’s life—when 
one is young—can surely be wiped out.” 

“You really believe that?” 

“Sometimes we must make ourselves believe things— 
when it is better for us. Won’t you try to do this for 
her sake—and for mine? You can—if you only will.” 

“When does she return?” 

“In two weeks—just a few days before the wedding.” 

“What wedding?” 

“Hers—of course. It is to be the twenty-fifth of this 
month. I thought you knew.” 

I lay back in the chair, feeling once more the old suffer¬ 
ing take hold of me. For the first time since my illness 
I realized that I had been fooling myself into thinking 
that the night she had fallen asleep with her head against 
my heart had changed everything. Now—I realized that 
nothing was changed. She had confessed her love to 
me; that was to be all. With an onrush of despair, I 
wished I had died that night ; then at least I should have 
gone into that other existence with a buoyant instead of a 
lagging step. 

Mrs. Bruce sewed on in silence for a long time, thereby 


306 that late unpleasantness 

showing what I took to mean sympathy. I watched her 
with a steadying influence creeping over me. Was it 
her strength helping me—or some power of which I was 
not aware? In the end, I found myself watching the 
leaves falling from the big oak and thinking only of 
Rose’s courage which dwarfed my unhappiness to noth¬ 
ingness. She had told me that she loved me; my duty 
now was to make that carry me through bravely on to 
the end. 

Mrs. Bruce’s voice broke in upon my thoughts. “How 
strange that this should have come to you here—in the 
same place where your kinswoman had a sorrow so 
similar!” 

“My kinswoman! You mean—” 

“Miss Claiborne—of course. It makes me almost feel 
there is a fatefulness in this old house. The Colonel 
has told you of her long, long years of sorrow; 
hasn’t he?” 

“He has told me that she lived here alone—but not 
specially of any sorrow. What was it?” 

“She was betrothed to a man who was among the first 
to leave for the War. It is like so many other stories of 
that day. He never came back.” 

“You mean he was killed?” 

“No—I think not. The last heard of him was when 
he was with President Davis after the fall of Rich¬ 
mond. No one ever knew exactly what became of 
him.” 

Suddenly mild interest flared into excitement. “He 
was with Jefferson Davis!” I exclaimed. 

She looked at me with alarm. “Yes—but why does 
this excite you so? Your hand is trembling.” 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 307 

“Please—please tell me more. It is most important 
that I should know details.” 

“Alas—there are very few details! All I know is 
that he was imprisoned with Mr. Davis at Fortress 
Monroe. He had left Richmond with our President who 
was on his way through Georgia to join his family and 
go to Cuba. They were captured and taken to Fortress 
Monroe. Long after that we heard vaguely that he had 
become insane when he was told that Mr. Davis had 
been put in chains—and that he had been taken to an 
asylum in the North. I’m sure Colonel Morancey knows 
where he was sent and whether he is still living or not; 
though probably out of delicacy for Miss Claiborne’s 
feelings—perhaps at her request—he has never discussed 
it—even with me. The Colonel, you know, was also 
with Mr. Davis up to the day before he was captured.” 

This last statement caught my attention and held it to 
the obliteration of the rest of the story. I was fairly 
trembling with the suspicion her words had created— 
with fear, too, at a possible result. 

Suddenly, without considering consequences, I blurted 
out: “Mrs. Bruce—that man you speak of—my cousin’s 
lover—is still living. He is in this house.” 

She looked at me as if she thought I was again 
delirious. f 

“Don’t think I’m mad too,” I hurried on. “He has 
been here for years, I’m sure—perhaps ever since the 
Civil War.” 

“What are you thinking about ?” 

“Colonel Morancey knows it—he and the two negroes 
here. They evidently take care of him.” 

She still looked at me with amazement, speechless. 


3 o8 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“I found it out soon after I arrived here. You re¬ 
member the noise I spoke of. It was this man con¬ 
fined in the attic. At first I thought of asking the 
Colonel; then his evident desire to keep it from me made 
me suspicious. In the end I decided to find out alone 
what it all meant.” 

“But—what does it mean?” 

“I don’t know yet.” 

“Surely you must tell Colonel Morancey! You can’t 
go on living here with such a situation! You must ask 
the Colonel what it all means. You must have this man 
sent away. This is not the right place for him. I beg 
of you not to let this go on a day longer. Let me send 
word to Colonel Morancey to come at once. Promise 
me you will do this at once.” 

“I think you are quite right,” I said slowly. “Yes— 
I had better tell him at once; and at least have an ex¬ 
planation.” 

And now I must rest a little before I write down the 
tragedy that has come into our quiet life here. I think 
of it still with a sickening horror and blame myself for 
a great part of it. If I had only remembered in time 
the strange vision I had seen during my illness—the 
night the old man had come into my room and found a 
box of matchdk, for that was surely what he was looking 
for—all this might not have happened! 

November 4- 

I shall tell it in a few words; it is too gruesome to 
dwell upon. 

The Colonel came in response to my message, but not 
until late in the evening. I had already gone to bed and 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 309 

had Ananias bring him into my room. He had hardly 
taken a seat when we both noticed the scent of something 
burning. He went out to call Ananias and before I was 
aware of what was happening, I heard him at the tele¬ 
phone sending in an alarm of fire. He rushed back into 
my room, said the house was on fire, helped me to throw 
on some clothes and got me started over towards Mrs. 
Bruce's. Then he and Ananias went up into the attic to 
try to put out the flames. When the fire brigade reached 
the house, the fire was extinguished—also two lives, 
Colonel Morancey’s and the madman's. Ananias told 
me about it afterwards. He and the Colonel had entered 
the room together and, before either of them could stop 
him, the madman had rushed upon the Colonel, grasped 
him by the throat and together they had fallen headlong 
into the blazing side of the room. 

No one here apparently knows that there was anything 
beyond this—more than the violent attack of a madman 
upon Colonel Morancey’s life. Perhaps it is much better 
so. I shall surely never tell them otherwise. Indeed, 
that may be all—and my suspicions only the result of 
listening to the ravings of a lunatic. 


CHAPTER XXI 


May i- 

Spring again—this marvelous spring of the South 
which comes in a night. One shuts the door ori ugly, 
unfriendly March and opens it next morning to find that 
April has come with a sparkling shower of emeralds. 
Jonquils spring up and gaily nod at one; violets 
spread their greeting with prodigal perfume; and the 
caressing air and sunshine speak only of the joy of 
living. 

Miss Josie has just been in to ask for another subscrip¬ 
tion; she is going to take her “vets” en masse to the Con¬ 
federate Reunion to be held next month in New Orleans. 
There are thirty of them now under her care and she 
wants to charter a special car and give them the “time of 
their lives,” as she phrases it, though I’m sure she is look¬ 
ing forward to it as much on her own account. I fancy 
she has planned to ride—or no doubt march—at the head 
of the procession, a slightly aged daughter of the regi¬ 
ment but an exceptionally live one. She still keeps her 
body like an unsheathed sabre and her spirit at white 
heat. I have not been out to the “home” since I re¬ 
turned, but she told me it was quite flourishing. 

“Then you are not discouraged?” 

“Discouraged!—Fiddlesticks! What’s there to get 
discouraged about? I get on the warpath sometimes”— 
she always is—“when they won’t do my way, but it don’t 
310 



THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


3ii 

last long and does me lots of good—them too. Most 
of them see now they’ve got to mind me. Are you back 
for long?” 

“Yes—for good.” 

“Then—you’re going to be a Southerner!” 

“If you’ll accept me as such.” 

“It’ll be pretty hard. You were an awful Yankee 
when you first came here.” 

“And now?” 

She smiled and shot a glance at Rose. “I reckon the 
case of Ruth and Naomi had something to do with it. 
‘Thy people—my people,’ you know.” The old lady rose 
to go. “I expect you both to come out immediately to 
see me. I want your ideas on an addition I’ve got to 
build.” 

“My ideas!” I laughed doubtingly. 

“Yes—yours. They aren’t always worthless.” 

I walked with her to the gate. 

“I never saw anybody look quite so happy,” she said, 
looking at me appraisingly. “It must be the result of 
your having lost that upper lip decoration.” 

“One of the post-nuptial rulings. I had to.” 

She held up a warning finger. “Don’t let her get the 
upper hand; it’s disastrous. I never had a bit of use for 
my husband after I found out I could manage him. 
Goodby.” 

Returning to the house, Ananias overtook me and 
asked me to come round to the back yard. 

“Anything wrong?” I asked, noting the important ex¬ 
pression he wore. “Not another accident with the fliv¬ 
ver, I hope.” 

“No, seh. It’s de cat, dis time.” 


312 THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Lucretia Borgia! Don’t tell me anything unfortu¬ 
nate has befallen her!” 

He scratched his head and grinned. “I doesn’t know 
ef yo’d call hit a misfortune or no, seh. Some folks 
might.” 

“What is it?” 

“She’s done gwine found six kittens.” 

In truth she had—and of all proud mothers I have ever 
seen Lucretia Borgia was far and away the most reful¬ 
gent. Comfortably reclining in a soap box filled with 
straw, her head held high enough to survey condescend¬ 
ingly the outside world, she gave me a look that said 
plainly: “I told you so.” When she looked down at 
her six offspring, her countenance was as gentle and 
benignant as any cat’s need be. 

Sapphira looked on from the kitchen window. 
“Whut’s yo’ gwine to call dem, sah? Dar sho is a 
plenty ob dem.” 

“The naming is an easy matter,” I replied. “There 
were heaps of Borgias. We’ll begin with Alexander and 
Caesar.” 

We are just back from a six months’ trip to Europe, 
“personally conducted” by Rose. It is amazing how 
much we saw, due entirely to her avid reading of guide 
books and a sort of religious conviction she possesses 
that makes seeing everything an obligation. I call it her 
Americanism. I have come to the conclusion that I 
didn’t know Paris at all—particularly after having been 
dragged to the tomb of Abelard and Heloise. She 
wanted to see my former haunts in the Latin Quarter and 
with some difficulty I dug out Jacques Montreux, finding 
him in the same old groove and apparently as contented 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 313 

as ever. How can he be! Nannette has achieved some¬ 
thing of a succ$s d’estime at the Opera in a new ballet 
called —“Le Desir, La Passion, L’Amour.” We sent 
her one of those floral offerings that always strike me as 
being just as suitable for a funeral as for gaier occasions. 
On the whole, I am rather ashamed of myself for not 
having experienced more interest in revisiting the city 
that sheltered me for so many years; it shows a lack of 
gratitude on my part, for it was rather kind to me in its 
way and while a part of it I thought I was happy. But 
now—it all seems so artificial and unreal. When I got 
back here once more, smelt the scent of clean old things 
about me, looked out on the quiet shady street, sat down 
to a repast of things found no where else in the world 
and saw opposite me the one I had always been looking 
for and took so long to find—well, I drew a sigh of very 
deep contentment. I knew I had reached home at last. 

“What are you doing?” Rose asked, leaning over my 
shoulder and watching me draw a line across a large 
sheet of paper. 

“Fm going to develop my suburban property by build¬ 
ing a row of workingmen’s cottages.” 

“On French plans?” 

“No—purely American.” 

She drifted round the room and finally dug out my 
journal from a row of books on the Confederacy. “You 
are writing a book—and you never told me!” Her face 
and voice were full of reproach. “May I read it?” 

“Most certainly not.” 

“But why? What is it about?” 

“You—principally.” 

“Then of course I must read it.” 


3H 


THAT LATE UNPLEASANTNESS 


“Never! It is only for me.” 

Her brows drew together and she looked at me search- 
ingly; then she nodded. “Very well—if you won’t let 
me read it—I reckon I know a way to get ev( n with you.” 

“How ?” 

“Never you mind. Just wait and see.” 

She left the room; and a few minutes later I saw her 
flash by the window outside. Rising, I stood behind 
the window curtain and watched her stop before the 
kitchen window and stand on tiptoe. 

“Saffy—Saffee-e!” she called. 

Sapphira appeared at the window. “Who’s dat a-callin’ 
dis nigger?” 

“Saffy—has he come?” 

Saffy gurgled appreciatively; you never have to ex¬ 
plain anything to her. “Sho he come, honey; and he’s 
come to stay.” 

“Saffy—what does he look like?” 

Here Sapphira broke into a ringing laugh. “Go long, 
honey! Yo’ ain’t gwine to ketch dis ole nigger twice 
in de same place!” 

“But Saffy;—you are cooking for him—and he’s a 
Yankee!” 

“How kin he be a Yankee, honey, when yo’se done 
gwine an’ married him!” 

I leaned out of the window and smiled triumphantly. 
“You see—you can’t dig up that question any more. 
It’s quite finished.” , 

“What question?” 

“That late unpleasantness.” 


THE END 
















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